


Take What the Water Gave Me

by Mount_Seleya



Series: The Book of the Mother [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blowjobs, Bondage, Breathplay, Childbirth, Complicated Relationships, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Drinking during Pregnancy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Femdom, Flogging, Forced Marriage, Forgiveness, Gentle Sex, Grief/Mourning, Infidelity, Not Beta Read, Older Woman/Younger Man, POV Cersei Lannister, Pegging, Post-Season Six, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Referenced Past Rape/Non-con, Rough Sex, Showverse, Sibling Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: Cersei tries to adapt to a circumscribed life in the North while Jon struggles to rally the people of Westeros for the coming war.Read the tags. Particularly the secondary ships. Other tags may be added.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly advise you to **take a look at the the secondary ship tags** before beginning this fic. There are plot developments in later chapters of this story that may not accord with certain shipping preferences. I have explained my creative reasoning extensively and any further complaints or badgering regarding these ship-related plot elements will be summarily deleted or taken to task (mood dependent).

White cliffs, white houses, white streets. Rafts of ice scudding across the black glass of the harbour. Winter was flashing its teeth at her, snarling its feral wolf-snarl, a warning, a test, a challenge to her lion's heart. The grey fur collar of her cloak brushed against her cheeks in the crisp breeze as her boots beat a path down the gangplank.

A lean girl clad in brown coat-of-plate was waiting on the jetty with a white direwolf and a small company of men. Jon had his arms around her the instant his feet hit land, engulfing her in the black, fluid sweep of his cloak.

"Arya." The murmured name was tiny, breathless, fragile. "Gods, Arya. Oh, Gods."

Cersei slowly inhaled a lungful of salt-sharp air and clutched Damon faster to her chest. It had held an almost sublime sweetness, once, trying to find Jon's tender spots, the places to plunge the knife in deep, twist and twist and twist. His eyes had registered only fury and loathing at _I will kill your sisters and your cripple brother._ But _I will have Ser Gregor crush the life out of Arya Stark and you will watch_ , that was a mortal strike, a dagger to the heart. The horror that had welled in Jon's fathomless black eyes at those words had been as sweet as summerwine. But it gnawed at her now, the memory of those terror-wide eyes, and she forced herself to swallow, her throat suddenly dry.

"Is something wrong, princess?" Marna asked from Cersei's side.

Schooling her features into an impassive mask, Cersei turned to meet the young, freckle-faced nurse's wide eyes. "My daughter was of an age with her," she offered, hoping to put a swift end to the girl's line of inquiry.

Marna nodded. Gave Joanna a little bounce. "My Rosey was about old as this one."

"How did you lose your daughter?" Cersei hazarded.

"Fat old merchant I served didn't want no babes 'round. My sister watched her for me. Down on Cobbler's Row." Marna paused. Waited for her import to congeal. When it didn't, she clarified, "It was near the Great Sept."

Cersei's mouth thinned. Guilt spiked through her gut. She jerked her gaze back to her husband.

Jon had Arya's face framed between gloved hands. "I should've been there, little sister," he told her, voice catching. Full lips cracked into a fragile smile. It struck Cersei, then, that he looked at his sister as he looked at the twins.

Arya stepped back. Patted the hilt of the thin short sword at her hip. "You gave me Needle. It kept me safe." Favouring her brother with a tiny grin, she added, "Now it's my turn to give you something pointy."

A grey-bearded man stepped forward with a bastard sword. Jon turned, taking it with a small, brief nod of gratitude. The telltale sheen of Valyrian steel flashed in the flat light of the overcast sky as he pulled the blade from its sheath. His eyes blazed dark as he tested the familiar heft. He drew a slow breath, back straightening, chest swelling.

"You've missed it, haven't you?" the man observed. His tone was warm and quietly fond. Almost fatherly.

"Aye," Jon said simply, smiling at the man as he sheathed the sword.

The man clapped Jon on the shoulder with a half-fingered hand. "It's good to have you back, Your Grace."

"I'm not a king, Ser Davos." Jon looped the sword-belt around his waist and fastened it in place with a knot. "My aunt sits the Iron Throne, and the North belongs to my sister Sansa, whether as Queen or Lady Paramount."

"Begging your pardon, but it's you the men of the North rallied behind, not Lady Stark."

Jon's jaw clenched. A tiny fog condensed as he blew out a breath. "I don't expect they'll follow me now."

"You underestimate your worth," Davos told him, earnest conviction in his voice.

Black eyes darted to look at Cersei. Holding her gaze, Jon took a long, bracing breath. Then he strode toward her, the carved, white pommel of his sword rubbing against the breast of his black leather jerkin with each step. He came to stand next to her, the great white wolf loping at his side, and Davos and Arya trailing close on his heels.

Jon took Joanna from Marna. The babe let out a delighted shriek. Her little fist shot up and tugged at Jon's beard

A smile broke across Davos's face at the sight. He reached out his whole hand and ran a finger under Joanna's chin. "My wife gave me five sons in as many years. Good lads, all of them. But I should have liked a little girl too."

"The one before you owns her father," Cersei said, striving to impart a mildness in her tone.

Davos looked at Cersei. His eyes bore a heaviness she could not place. "I imagine she does, my lady."

"Did you know King Stannis offered to name me a Stark if I brought the Night's Watch to his cause?" Jon asked.

"I did not," answered the knight. "Stannis was a private man. He did not always see fit to seek my counsel."

"I refused his offer. The Watch plays no part in politics. My life was pledged to the Watch."

"Your duty to the Watch ended when your sworn brothers stuck their knives in your gut." There was a tension in the words. A bridled anger.

"Aye, it did," replied Jon, his tone solemn. "I have since sworn another vow. I am husband to Cersei Lannister."

Arya Stark let out a bark of laughter. "You only wed her because I was hostage at Riverrun."

Jon smiled at Arya, but it was rueful this time, almost apologetic. "What's done is done. It isn't simple any more."

"Has it ever been simple?" Davos turned his head toward Cersei once more. His gaze plumbed into her searchingly.

For a long moment, she simply held the knight's eye, as ice crunched against the side of the jetty and men shuffled about the deck of the ship.  _I do not need your pity or approval_ , she thought, keeping her chin level, her back straight as a mast.

"May I hold my nephew?" the Stark girl broached at last, cutting through the silence as cleanly as a sword.

Cersei met the girl's gaze. Her head was tilted to one side, bird-like, and there was a slightly fey gleam in her eyes. She'd been a wild, beastly child, a trait her father had happily indulged by hiring a foreign swordmaster to instruct her. Now, on the cusp of womanhood, she seemed unknowable and strange, a tome scribed in a lost tongue.

"You may," Cersei said, surrendering the babe into the girl's arms. "But know he could sleep through the Doom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic was taken from a lyric in the song "What the Water Gave Me" by Florence + The Machine (which was in turn taken from the title of a painting by Frida Kahlo).
> 
> Regarding Arya:
> 
> The scenario here is that Arya got captured in the Riverlands while making her way back north after killing Walder Frey. One of the Lannister men recognized her from her time at Harrenhal (she was searching for Nymeria, thus wearing her own face). He was going to kill her on the spot, suspecting she was involved in the deaths of the guards at Harrenhal, so as a desperate gambit, she revealed her true identity. The man decided she was more valuable as a hostage and sent Needle to Winterfell as proof of life. I chose to write this fic from Cersei's perspective, so, unfortunately, I couldn't find an organic way to work this backstory into the narrative.
> 
> The Lady Crane scenes struck me as having a deeper import than serving as a narrative engine for the Waif conflict. Why show Arya watching Cersei being portrayed in a play as a sympathetic character, and then have her put herself in Cersei's shoes as a thought experiment, unless you mean to establish she's identifying with Cersei on some level? I think it's intended to show Arya was connecting Cersei's fierce love and protectiveness of her children with her own mother's protectiveness, and also seeing a parallel between her own thirst for vengeance and Cersei's. So, at this point in the show, I think Arya may very well be having second thoughts about Cersei being on her hit list. And having her beloved older brother choose forgiveness would probably tip the scale toward mercy.


	2. Chapter 2

Muffled voices carried under the crack at the base of the door from the public room on the floor below. Cersei shifted in the rough-hewn wooden chair, dropped her gaze to Joanna's small, hungry mouth fixed upon her breast. The babe's round little cheeks were painted a warm orange in the glow of the fire blazing in the hearth.

"I have enough for the both of them, princess," Marna said from where she sat nursing Damon in the chair opposite. The great white bulk of Jon's direwolf lay between them on the floor with his red eyes fixed on the door.

"She was restless," Cersei answered. Her bones hummed with nervous energy. It was tormenting her like an itch, the urge to do _something_ , but she was circumscribed and useless, a shrivelled lion caged in the bowels of Casterly Rock. The last three years of her life, aside from her brief reign, had been a series of imprisonments. But, then, perhaps she had been imprisoned from the moment the maester pulled her from her mother and declared her a girl.

 _Your lot will be different_ , she thought, sliding her fingers through the feather-soft coils of hair on her daughter's scalp.

"You needn't trouble yourself," Marna said reassuringly. "I'm certain the prince will retire soon."

Cersei lifted her gaze and met the nurse's wide, brown eyes, forcing her lips to curve into the shape of a smile. "Yes, I suppose he shall stumble up here, once he's deep into his cups and has grown tired of his men's company."

"The prince has a good and kindly heart. Has he ever been...ungentle...with you before, princess?"

The girl's eyes were round as coins and her chin was tipped timidly toward her chest. It was a perfect display of deference, as if she couldn't believe her own boldness at prying into her lady's marital life, but Cersei knew better. _Leave it to the Spider to pull a sharp little thing like her out of the gutter. A knife to hold to the lion's throat._

"I fear tonight he shall merely flop onto the bed," Cersei said with a mummer's sigh.

"I'm sure he would never neglect his duties, princess," Marna replied, her face the picture of sheepish shock.

 _Soak up all the gossip you need, girl, and send it flying to King's Landing_ , Cersei silently goaded. _Let Varys whisper in Daenerys's ear that her nephew still beds his wife and another Targaryen heir will soon be on the way_.

Joanna wriggled in Cersei's arms. Unlatched her mouth from Cersei's breast with an oddly decisive jerk of her head. Cersei looked down at her, lifting a hand to fix the bodice of her red, scoop-necked gown. There was nothing of herself in the babe's look, save an angle to the downy, incipient line of her brows that might one day form an arch. Black eyes blinked up at her. Jon Snow's eyes. Wolf eyes. _Even now, Lyanna Stark's ghost haunts me._

Rising from her chair, Cersei sauntered over to the narrow window, absently rocking Joanna in the cradle of her arms. The world outside was silver and still. A half-moon peered from behind a ragged veil of clouds. Its light spilled across the snow-capped roofs sloping away from the inn toward the thicket of masts anchored in the harbour.

Certainty settled in the pit of Cersei's stomach like a stone. _I shall never return to the capital_. The witch hadn't tasted hope in her future, only sorrow and ruin, three golden children, wrought of love and secrets, and three golden shrouds. _The lion is a creature of the south. A creature of summer. There is no place for a Lannister in the North_.

 _A Lannister does not fear unfamiliar soil_ , countered a voice from the depths of Cersei's mind. It's what her father told her when she'd first learned she was to wed Rhaegar Targaryen and screamed she'd never be parted from Jaime. A remembered image eclipsed the ghost-voice, long, silver hair spilling from a shining helm at the Lannisport tourney.

Cersei scoffed, a hard, bitter fragment of sound. _How swiftly foolish girls are seduced by silly dreams_.

The trod of boots in the corridor tore her from her thoughts. Voices murmured briefly and then the door creaked open. Jon Snow's reflection appeared in the window, an apparition looming over the silent, moon-silvered roofs of White Harbour.

"Had your fill of Northern ale?" Cersei asked. The question was another feint. A mummer's farce for Varys's little spy. _Let the dragon bitch think that the only loyalty my husband has to me is to what lies between my legs_.

Jon's reflection glowered at her. Unfastened his sword-belt stiffly. "No, but I'll have some wine, if there's any left."

Cersei smiled. There were the wolf's hidden teeth. The ones he kept behind his pretty lips. It still held a thrill, provoking the wolf inside of Jon to snap at her, even if it was more a necessity now than the sport it had once been.

"I wish to be alone with my wife," Jon told Marna, standing his sword against the wall with a muted _thud_.

Cersei wheeled around in time to see Marna spring from her chair and unburden Damon into his father's arms. Giving a quick curtsey, the girl shuffled out of the room, the door complaining loudly as she pulled it shut behind her.

Jon slumped into Marna's chair. Heaved out a long breath. "I'm sorry I tarried so late. I spoke with my sister."

"I am sure she had many tales," Cersei said, striving to keep her tone one of mild interest.

"Aye," replied Jon. "She was at the Sept of Baelor. And the Twins. I didn't ask how much she saw." He didn't need to elaborate, not with the way his voice was tighter than a vice, the way he cast glistening eyes down at their son's face. "Lady Stark didn't want me going near her babes. But Robb snuck me in to see Arya. I'll never forget." Screwing his eyes shut, he sucked in a sharp breath, croaked, "He'll never get to hold them. His niece and his nephew."

Cersei drifted to the cradle and lowered Joanna into it. "What's done is done, Snow. As you said."

"Aye, I did," Jon conceded. Letting out a quiet sigh, he stood up from the chair, strode over to the cradle. The direwolf padded after him and dropped down at the foot of the cradle as he gently placed Damon beside his sister. He stroked a finger along the babe's cheek, wonder and love plain on his face, and Cersei's heart ached at the sight.

Damon Targaryen. A dream-son named in the swoon of maidenhood for an uncle and a long-dead prince. Rhaegar Targaryen's heir-to-be, miscarried in a torrent of hot, girlish tears after her father told her the betrothal was no more.

Jon's dark eyes found her. His brow rumpled as he took in her expression. "What is it?" he asked softly.

_You are phantoms made flesh. Your bones are wrought of my misery. You stare at me with dead eyes and smile at me with dead lips._

They had stripped her naked, paraded her through the streets, but there were secrets that lived inside of her yet. Deeper than skin and sinew. Deeper than bone and marrow. Deeper, even, than the memory of Jaime within her. Secrets that were hers alone; hers to know and hers to keep. Secrets that could only wound in the telling.

"Can you trust the men who'll escort us north?" Cersei said, the bed groaning as she sat down on the edge of it.

"They're Free Folk," Jon explained. He lifted his hands and begun to undo the uppermost buckle of his black jerkin. "They don't see Stark and Lannister. We're all southerners to them. And they've made their peace with us."

"They are loyal to _you_ , Snow. You let them past the Wall. That does not mean they will favour me."

Jon hissed out a breath through clenched teeth. Peeled off his jerkin and tossed it on the chair beside the cradle. "You think the Free Folk care who you are, Cersei? What you've done? They've seen the army of the dead." His hands flew up to unfasten the row of ties on his black woollen shirt, working with deft, practiced efficiency.

Cersei's pulse stuttered when the halves of the shirt parted to reveal the muscled plane of his torso. An impossible testament was graven in his skin in six gnarled, vicious scars, five on his belly and a killing wound over his heart. And yet, she couldn't deny the truth those scars told, not when she had lived out the power of witchcraft herself.

"And if you should die, Snow?" Cersei asked. "What kindnesses do you suppose true Northerners shall show me?"

"I'll leave Ghost with you. He'll protect you and the twins. He stayed loyal to my friends when I was dead."

Cersei inhaled slowly. Curled her lips into a grim smile. "I imagine the beast shall stay loyal to your sister as well."

Jon stood a moment, his chest expanding and contracting with the slow, measured tide of his breath. Then he took two swift, purposeful steps forward, cupped her jaw and tipped her gaze up to meet the dragonglass stab of his eyes. Tracing a fingertip over the spot on her neck where her blood drummed, he said, "Don't try Ghost's loyalty. Or _mine_."

His words were soft and precise and deadly. The maw of the wolf closing around her throat without biting down. A scoffing hum of a laugh sounded behind her closed lips, part challenge and part uncertainty, and she smiled anew. "Tell me, Snow, will loyalty keep Arya Stark from sticking her little sword in my belly while you're at war?"

"My sister loves me more than she's ever hated you," Jon declared, quietly forceful.

"You sound remarkably certain," Cersei drawled, meeting the downward press of Jon's gaze unflinchingly.

"I am."

Cersei's right brow flicked up in a mordant arc. "Then you are twice the fool I took you for."

"You think it a fool's game?" Jon snapped. "Trying to hold the North together? My family? _My heart?_ "

"The world knows no mercy. Cruel or kind, just or unjust, it will tear apart all you hold dear. Thinking elsewise is folly."

Jon's fingers skated across her jaw. His lips bent into a rueful smile. "Folly is prizing ruthlessness above sense."

"Jaime and I were as one as children. But he was trained at arms. I was trained to simper and please and sit prettily. I've survived, Snow, with the useless knowledge lords grant their daughters. I will not apologize for surviving."

Leaning down, Jon buried his face in the sweep of her shoulder, his fingers knitting in the short, wispy tufts of her hair. "I know," he murmured, his voice iron wrapped in velvet. "But I don't need you to survive, Cersei. I need you to _live_." Soft whiskers teased her skin as he mouthed at her neck. "I need your wits at the Dreadfort with our children."

Cersei let her eyes slip shut. Breathed in the lingering musk of his leathers. "What of my needs, Snow?"

"Tell me what you need, Cersei," Jon whispered, sliding his free hand up the length of her thigh.

The susurrus of her name was triumph. _Lyanna_ , Robert had whispered in her ear on their wedding night. Now, the echo of that name dwelled in Jon Snow, a man grown, warm and alive when Robert would've killed him in the cradle. _He is mine_ , she thought. _No one shall touch him. No man shall ever deny me happiness again_.

Cersei opened her eyes. Shifted closer to the edge of the bed. "Put your mouth on me," she commanded.

"Aye," came her husband's breathless reply. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her pulse-point. His fingers closed around the curve of her hipbone, bunching up her dress and making the rich, red fabric flow between his knuckles. Cersei clutched the back of his neck. He tarried there, seemingly basking in her nearness, the heat of her body.

At last, Cersei released an impatient hum, levering her thighs apart. Jon chuckled, a soft, warm rush against her skin. It was a rare thing, his laugh, and the sound of it warmed her blood, made her chest feel strangely full.

Jon pulled away from her. Dropped to his knees on the the floor between her parted thighs. Undoing the thin leather thong tying his hair back in a loose knot, she tangled her fingers in his curls, lightly digging her nails into his scalp. Black eyes flicked up to meet hers. Jon silently held her gaze as he rucked her skirts up out of the way.

Then Jon dipped his head, and his tongue found its mark, sweeter than song. A long moan shuddered out of Cersei. It was oddly powerful, the sight of him burrowing into her sex so readily, feasting on her desire so hungrily.

"Yes, like that," Cersei purred. Her hands turned to talons in his hair. Held him fast between her legs.

A smothered growl rumbled against her cunt. With a sharp, upward jerk of his chin, Jon fixed his lips over her pearl. Sucking on it hard, he slid his right hand from its perch on her thigh, sunk two fingers into her slick depths.

Cersei's eyes slammed closed on a low moan. "Don't you _dare_ stop," she hissed, her hips stuttering up off of the bed. The nails of Jon's left hand bit into the skin of her thigh as she pressed his face to her. She was close, so close, her pleasure spiralling higher and higher as his fingers twisted within her and his mouth worked its sorcery.

Ecstasy whelmed her body a moment later. She moaned, clutching Jon's hair as she rode her crest, legs quivering.

Her eyes cracked open when she descended. Jon pulled back, panting, his breath ghosting warm against her sex. Turning liquid eyes up at her, he ran his tongue across his reddened lips, cleaning away the evidence of her pleasure. The motion did nothing for the glistening smears clinging to the bristles of his moustache and beard.

Cersei cupped Jon's cheek. Traced her thumb across the bow of his upper lip slowly. Fingers still lodged deep within her core, he smiled up at her, a soft little quirk of his impossible mouth, at once sheepish and pleased.

"I've chartered a riverboat," he told her in a hush. "The White Knife is still clear enough. We leave on the morrow." Flexing his fingers minutely, he added, "We won't have a large cabin like we did on the sail from King's Landing."

"Stop dallying, then," Cersei ordered, pitching her voice low and throaty.

Rising from the floor, Jon hastily kicked the boots off his feet, then shucked his breeches and cast them on the chair. He stood stock-still for a moment, eyes pressing down on her, mouth slightly ajar. She tilted a smile up at him, the one she knew could melt any man, trailing a hand up his right thigh, over a scar whose story she knew not.

" _Gods_ ," Jon gasped when she palmed the outline of his cock where it curved against his smallclothes.

"There is only me," Cersei intoned archly.

Smallclothes were something she dispensed with two decades ago. It had made stealing moments with Jaime easier. But Jon Snow was a curious creature, prim and fastidious as a septa, and yet his blood could run hot as any man's. She hadn't known the first night he'd spent in her bed; he'd been a spoil of war, then, a pretty thing to ruin.

"Let me feel your touch," Jon implored, his voice at once ragged and smooth, like frayed silk.

Unlacing the smallclothes, Cersei peeled them off her husband, down over the jagged scar on his left hip. She cupped his bollocks in the palm of one hand, wrapped the other around his arousal and gave it a slow, teasing stroke. Gently tugged the foreskin back up over the swollen pink barb of his cockhead in smooth slick glide.

Jon's eyes fluttered shut on a strangled gasp. Grasping her shoulder for purchase, he whined, " _Please!_ "

"Men may have their steel," Cersei mused as she began to pump him true. "You're all soft and vulnerable underneath."

"Do I _feel_ soft?" Jon grit out. Clutching fingers trembled on her shoulder, gripping hard enough for nails to bite skin. Muscled thighs quivered on either side of where the sac rested warm and full in the spoon of her hand.

He endured another few strokes of her hand. Then he was crushing his lips to hers, his hands framing her face as he bore her down onto the mattress with the weight of his body, the ancient bedframe cracking loudly in protest. Hitching her legs around his waist, she folded him into the circle of her arms, pulling him closer, urging him onward.

A raw groan was lost in Cersei's mouth as Jon slipped slowly inside of her. She answered with a pleased hum, stroking her palms across the sweat-slick plane of his back, until he nocked flush with her and stilled.

It was familiar by now, the fit of him within her, how her cunt parted around and clasped his cock. He wasn't Jaime. Nothing could ever match the sublime perfection of feeling Jaime inside of her. Jaime had been born knowing how to love her, born attuned to the rhythms of her body, while Jon was still learning what pleased her best.

Jon tore his mouth away from hers. Kissed along the line of her jaw. Buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Gods, you're _sopping_ , feels so _good_ ," he breathed, his lips brushing across the shell of her ear with each syllable.

"Move, Snow, _now_ ," Cersei husked, knitting her fingers in his sweat-damp curls.

With a feral growl, Jon dragged his hips back, then rocked into her again. Warm lips fastened over her pulse-point. Moaning throatily, Cersei canted her hips upward, meeting Jon thrust for thrust as he set a gentle tempo.

After a time, Jon wedged his arms between Cersei and the bed, encircling her shoulders and rolling them both over. She pulled herself upright atop him. Hands swept down the length of her back. Bracketed her waist in a firm grip. "Ride me," he urged. The hushed intensity of his Northern accent sent a thrill chasing down Cersei's spine.

Planting her hands on his shoulders, as much to pin him in place as to give herself leverage, she lifted off of him. Eyes afire with need, he tightened his grip on her waist, his hips jerking off the bed and burying his cock deep.

He made a fine sight, his dark curls a tangle on the pillow, his pretty mouth panting. Such an exquisite picture of ruin. It was a rare, lovely thing, seeing him so thoroughly wrecked. And so she held herself there, on the very precipice of satisfaction, moving upon him the way he favoured, in undulations as slow and steady as the sway of the sea.

Release came upon her sweetly. Closing her eyes, she moaned her pleasure, her hips rolling through it. Jon managed a few more upward surges, and then he, too, was unwrought, stilling and gasping her name as he spent.

"Was it pleasing for you?" Jon broached when he had reclaimed his breath enough to speak.

Cersei's eyebrow cut upward sardonically. "I would not stage a whore's farce to spare your pride, Snow."

Jon reached to cup Cersei's face. Swept his thumb over the arch of her quirked brow. "You could slay with that look."

"Perhaps I have," Cersei returned, stroking a hooked finger along Jon's bearded chin.

Curving his hand around the back of her head, Jon pulled Cersei down and claimed her lips in a soft, lazy kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I interpret the S4E3 sept scene with Jaime and Cersei as rape. I've written this chapter in accordance with that reading. This puts Jon and Cersei on a somewhat even footing, I feel, in that they're both victims who've subsequently chosen to forgive their rapists. I realize that "victim falling for their rapist" is generally an _extremely_ problematic trope, but they're both cognizant of what was done to them and confront it head-on here, and the overarching theme of this fic is forgiveness and trying to build something out of the crapsack world that is _Game of Thrones_. I hope I've avoided rape-culture-reinforcing ideas, but if discussion of rape is not something you wish to read, only the end part of this chapter is plot-relevant.
> 
> Cersei's outfit here is the one from the recently-released promo for S7.

A rush of breath burst across the nape of Cersei's neck as Jon started awake behind her with a hitching gasp. His thick strong arms trembled ever-so-slightly where they were cinched like girdle around her middle.

"I gather you had a nightmare," she said once his chest was rising and falling evenly against her back.

"I dreamt of nothing," he answered, his voice small and quavering.

"You dreamt of being dead," Cersei amended.

Jon blew out a long, shaky breath, rustling the wisps of hair at Cersei's nape. "Aye," he replied.

Cersei dreamt of Steffon's tiny still body and Joffrey's final choking gasps and rot devouring Myrcella's sweet face. The images were vivid, things she'd seen unfold before her, and things her mind conjured when she hadn't. They wrenched her awake, sometimes, a lost name on her breath, cold sweat filming the small of her back. Even in the earliest days of their marriage, when Jon's heart bore only fear and hate, he'd held her fast through the night.

Fingertips played gently across the bare skin of Cersei's abdomen as the distant chatter of gulls filtered into the room. _He misses the twins stirring within me_. Perhaps another child would quicken before her wilting. Perhaps not.

"Does it frighten you? That there's nothing when we die?" Jon asked after a long stretch of silence had passed. His words were an intimate hush, softer than the caress of his fingers, though there was still a catch in his voice.

 _He's not spoken of his death at length before. He trusts me. The poor sweet fool truly trusts me_.

The realization jarred Cersei. A fluttering twinge coursed through her chest. "I've seen too much of death to fear it."

"I remember dying. It hurt. And I was so cold. Colder than I've ever been." Jon flattened a palm over Cersei's navel. "My last thoughts were of being with Father and Robb and Ygritte. And then there was nothing. Nothing at all." Heaving out a long, skittering breath, he creaked, "I'll never see them again. Nor meet my mother."

"What did you expect there to be?" Cersei probed, striving to blunt the habitually keen, cutting edge of her voice.

"I don't know," replied Jon, a little sheepishly. "Father only said we return to the Old Gods."

"The _Seven-Pointed Star_ meticulously catalogues which sins will land you in each of the Seven Hells," Cersei stated. "Nothing is a kindness, Snow. It means my children are beyond suffering. Beyond the whims of gods and men."

"Aye, you're right, I suppose it's a cold comfort," Jon conceded.

Cersei huffed out a soft and rueful laugh. "What does winter leave but cold comforts?"

Jon pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. "We've our children," he murmured, his breath gusting across her skin. "You spoke true. They own me now, body and soul. And, as long as they do, my heart belongs to their mother."

A surge of warmth swooped through Cersei's insides. Her lips pulled into a hidden smile. "Fool," she chided.

"Aye, but whose fool am I?" Jon whispered. He trailed his hand across her belly and along the curve of her hip. Then, planting another lingering kiss on her nape, he unspooled his arms from around her middle and pulled away.

The bedstand cracked in protest as Cersei rolled around. Bottomless eyes locked with her own. Her husband's face was a thing of half-shadow, limned in the wan, grey morning light washing in through the window at his back. Reaching out her right hand, she cupped the hinge of his jaw, the downy scruff of his beard rasping against her palm.

"You flinched the first time I touched you," Cersei noted, a pang of regret twisting in her gut.

Jon's throat worked. His lips firmed into a frown. "The twins came from that night. I don't want them knowing."

The words were quiet and gentle, but still they slipped between Cersei's ribs, sunk into her heart like a shard of ice. Drawing a slow, bracing breath through her nose, she smiled sadly, nudged a finger up behind the shell of his ear. "People talk, Snow," she stated. The implication was there, unvoiced, unsaid: _And now I cannot silence them_.

"I don't want them knowing," Jon repeated.

"The circumstances of our marriage are known. They shall uncover the truth for themselves in time."

"Aye, they'll know I wed you out of duty, not choice. That can't be helped." Jon sucked in a harsh breath. Swallowed. "I was angry after Bran told me of my birth. At Father, I mean. He let me suffer a bastard's lot. How could he do that?" Jon's jaw flexed against Cersei's palm as he grit his teeth. "The truth was worse, is why. Rhaegar Targaryen...he..."

" _He didn't_ ," Cersei said, oddly certain. "Robert couldn't abide women having wants of their own. He spun himself a suitable fiction."

Jon sobbed. Blinked shining eyes at her. "I feel I've no right to be here. I don't want them knowing that shame."

A hot tear slithered around the heel of Cersei's hand. _Men have hurt me since I was a girl. Used me as they pleased_. "I know what I did to you, Snow," she admitted quietly. "I have no illusions about anything I've ever done."

"I forgive you. All that's happened to us... _between us_...it's our burden to bear. Not our children's."

"I know," Cersei said. _Of all the men I could treat the way men have treated me. Perhaps mercy is the gentlest hell_.

"I want them to know there's love in the world," Jon declared.

"Love is an impediment to nothing," replied Cersei. "Not war. Not death. And certainly not rape."

Jon's brow crinkled. A moment later, his large, wet eyes widened in horrified understanding. "Did your brother–"

"Once," Cersei confirmed, cutting Jon off before he could give shape to Jaime's crime. It plagued her dreams, some nights, the memory of her brother's beloved hands pressing her down, his beloved voice snarling _I don't care._ The betrayal had hurt as much as Joff's death, but the pain had been too deep to see at the time, too near her heart.

Eyes narrowing, Jon drew a sharp, furious sniff through his nose. "Rapers are no men."

"You do not know what it's like, Snow, being born with half of yourself in another body. I could forgive Jaime anything." A sad smile curved Cersei's lips. "I would have burned the world for him. Burned every last soul in it. _I almost did_."

"Send a raven inviting him to winter with us, if you wish," Jon suggested, his voice low and tight.

"I fear Jaime and I shall never be reconciled." Cersei forced herself to swallow. Her throat seemed parched as bone. "He blames me for Tommen's death. I was repaying Septa Unella her tender mercies when he walked out a window. He saw his queen die, and I thought nothing of it. I was blind. I cared more for vengeance than my own son."

Jon released a weary sigh. His expression softened. "How do we build a life around so many ghosts?" he asked.

Cersei slid her hand from Jon's jaw to his neck. Felt the grounding beat of his blood. "We can try, I suppose."

A wavering wail rent the air suddenly. It was joined an instant later by a much louder, fiercer squall.

"Seven Hells," Jon muttered. Rolling away from Cersei, he scrambled off of the bed, half-dashed to the cradle.

Cersei sat upright. The wood of the headboard was cool against the bare skin of her back. She let herself admire the ripple and flex of the muscles in Jon's back as he reached into the cradle and picked up their wailing son. "It's alright, little one," he soothed, gazing down at the babe's red, scrunched-up face with a look of perfect tenderness.

Jaime was golden and glorious. The sun of her life. But Jon Snow, he was the moon, pale and stark and beautiful. And he had given her two beautiful children; children she had never expected to bear. She'd been so huge and ungainly with them growing in her belly by just five turns that Jon had taken to helping her on and off the Iron Throne. The throne that could maim a man for sitting in it. It had been so defiantly gentle that she'd suffered the indignity.

"Bring him to me," Cersei said, holding out her arms.

Crossing around to Cersei's side of the bed, Jon lowered the babe into her arms, then went to gather his clothing. He hurriedly dressed as she brought Damon to her breast and waited for him to stop fussing enough to get a latch.

Once he was presentable, Jon scooped Joanna out of the cradle, tucking her screaming head against his shoulder. "I'll take her to Marna," he told Cersei, flashing a small smile before turning and hastening out of the room.

Cersei watched her son's mouth working slowly in the stillness that followed. "My sweet boy," she whispered. It was a thought she'd last had when Qyburn peeled back the shroud and showed her the ruined smear of Tommen's face. She'd tasted the ashes of her joy in her mouth, then, precisely as Tyrion had promised she would. But oh, these precious little creatures, her silver twins, they had sprung like flowers out of the devastation and pain.

When her son was sated, Cersei laid him down amidst the rumpled linens, then slipped out of the bed. She took the clean white shift from where Marna had left it folded atop a nearby chest and pulled it over her head. At two-and-forty, it felt odd to be dressing herself, but lady attendants were an Andal custom, and she was of the North now.

Jon burst into the room when she was fastening her black gown. He halted near the bed, jaw clenched, mouth firmed. A crumpled roll of parchment with a broken grey seal was clutched in the trembling fingers of his right hand.

"Out with it, Snow," Cersei commanded.

The apple of Jon's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes remained fixed on an unspecified point near her feet. "Sansa is to wed," he said tightly. "I'm hale and of Stark blood. She wants me to give her away in Bran's place."

Cersei said nothing, just plucked the stiff, pearl-studded cloth gorget off the chest, fitting it around her neck as she turned. A moment passed, then footfalls sounded behind her, and Jon's fingers set to buckling the gorget in place.

"She says to bring you with me to Winterfell," Jon told her after a long moment. "I know there's no love between you."

Cersei shut her eyes. Sucked in a sharp, hissing breath. "The little _whore_ helped murder Joffrey," she snarled.

Gentle hands flattened against Cersei's shoulders. Steadied her. "Sansa swears she had no part in your son's death."

A scoffing laugh issued from Cersei. "And you believe her? Of course you do. Starks never lie."

"She had no cause to lie to me. I know she's capable of killing those who hurt her."

"Is that a warning, Snow?"

"No, it's the truth." Jon drew a slow breath. Seemingly weighed his words. "She fed Ramsay Bolton to his hounds." Bracing arms wound around her waist. "He raped her. Tortured her. Murdered our brother for sport. A boy of _eleven_."

Cersei hadn't known the whole of it. Qyburn's little birds sung only so much. She swallowed. Held her tongue.

"I love you. I love Sansa." The softness of Jon's nose prodded her ear. "I can't help it. _I won't_."

"Who is the lucky groom this time?" Cersei asked, forcing a change of subject.

"Petyr Baelish," replied Jon. Letting her go, he reached over to the chest, picked up one of her ornamental cloth pauldrons. He placed it over the cap of her left shoulder and began latching the small clasps to secure it to her dress.

"Your sister must be mad," Cersei averred. She twisted her hands where they were folded in front of her.

Jon gave a tiny, nervous laugh. "Aye, I don't favour Lord Baelish much, either. But, then, Sansa doesn't favour you." His hands dropped. Retrieved the second pauldron. Set it over her right shoulder and started on the clasps.

"You don't know him, Snow," Cersei insisted. "You haven't the _faintest_ notion what he's like."

"He rallied the Knights of the Vale. They turned the battle for us. Now he must want Sansa's hand in return."

Cersei spun around when Jon pulled his hands away. She met his eyes, her mouth curling into a taut, waspish smile. "Lord Baelish serves whomever he pleases, when he pleases, as he pleases. Trusting him would be folly."

"Sansa counselled the same." Jon reached up and cupped Cersei's face. "But look at us: enemies wed for politics." He smiled at her. The fragility of it was aching. "My lovely, fearsome, terrible wife. The mother of my children."

"You are entirely too naive, Snow," Cersei said. Her tone was flat, cutting, but there was a dry catch in her throat.

"I see it as having hope for the future," he returned, and then his lips were upon hers, soft as summer rain.


	4. Chapter 4

The red of Sansa's hair shone like burnished copper in the orange light of the lanterns dotting the weirwood grove. She didn't deign to look at Cersei as she followed Jon toward the part in the ring of spectators, her gloved hand fitted into the crook of his elbow and her long, pale grey cloak sweeping soundlessly through the snow behind her.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" the lord stood in the middle of the clearing asked when Jon and Sansa stopped. He was one of Lord Arryn's men, Cersei knew, a follower of the Faith, but she supposed Baelish's pockets went deep.

"Sansa, of the House Stark, comes to be wed," Jon answered solemnly, reciting the expected words by rote. "Trueborn daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. She seeks the Gods' blessing. Who has come to claim her?"

Baelish strode from behind the officiating lord. He wore fine robes and a black cloak pinned with a mockingbird clasp. "I, Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, claim this woman," he declared in a gentle lilt. "Who gives her?"

"Aegon, of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, her cousin by blood and brother by upbringing," Jon returned.

"Do you accept this man?" asked the officiating lord, turning his gaze to Sansa.

Cersei hazarded a glance at the bride. A small, smirking smile quirked her lips, and then she walked toward Baelish. He clapped his hands over her shoulders when she halted before him, cracking a broad, gloating grin.

"You told me about your pretty picture here, didn't you, Lord Baelish?" Sansa posed with an air of lightness.

Emotion briefly fled Baelish's face. Then he grinned anew, but the gleam in his eye was sharper, now, almost fey. "Yes, my love," he said, stroking Sansa's shoulders. "And what a pretty picture it is. You, by my side. _Always_."

"You mean you on the Iron Throne with me as your pretty little queen," Sansa countered coolly.

Baelish chuckled softly. "All men have dreams, sweetling." He shook his head as a father might chide an unruly child. "Some men dream bigger. Dream of rising above their humble stations. What are we without our dreams?"

"You don't just dream. You plot to make your dreams real. You've been doing it for years. You said so yourself."

"These aren't the words of Catelyn Stark's daughter," Baelish said, sliding his hands up to frame Sansa's face. "They're those of a cruel, bitter woman. You aren't that woman, my dear. You will _never_ be that woman."

"You don't see it, do you?" Sansa replied, undaunted. "You see where you want to be. You don't see where you _are_." The small voice rung loud and clear in the shocked silence hanging heavily as a winter cloak over the sacred grove. "You killed Jon Arryn and framed the Lannisters because sowing violence moved you closer to your precious picture. You pushed Aunt Lysa to her death because she knew. You poisoned Joffrey because he was in your way."

Cersei's throat constricted. She forced herself to swallow. Flashed a sidelong look to where her brother stood. Jaime's deep blue eyes held hers for an instant, his square, clean-shaven jaw flexing as he grit his teeth.

"You said Mother's death was an accident!" Robin Arryn shrieked at Baelish.

Baelish whirled to face Robin in a swish of rich, silver-blue robes, holding his hands out in an open-palmed gesture. "You are young, Lord Arryn," he told the boy smoothly. "There is much you have yet to learn of the world."

Robin's face crumpled. His cheeks were red and wet. "Liar!" he screamed. "I'm your liege lord! You serve me!"

"Your mother was a disturbed woman," said Baelish. "She locked you away and nursed you until you were ten. Wanted to keep you as helpless as a suckling babe when your rightful place was as Lord of the Eyrie."

"Murderer!" howled the young lord, surging forward. One of his vassals caught him round the middle and stayed him. "I demand his head, Lord Royce! Give me his head right now! Make him pay for Mother and Father!"

"Look around," Baelish said, motioning at the crowd. "Lannister, Stark, Targaryen. So many old feuds settled."

Fury blossomed in Cersei's breast. Her hands trembled at her sides. "You murdered your king. _My son_."

Baelish's smirk melted into a look of barely concealed fear when he turned to meet the brutal press of Cersei's gaze. "I may have procured the poison, princess, but I assure you I did not deliver it. Half the realm wanted your son dead."

Cersei laughed, a hard, joyless sound. Her lips arced into a knife-slash of a smile. "Do you think you can simply wag your silver tongue and worm away as always, Lord Baelish?" she snarled, hatred crashing into her heart at full tilt. "You conspired to kill _my son_. You will have no quarter from me. I am a Lannister. You know what we do to our enemies."

"My life is yours, should that be your will, princess. But you know I'm a useful man. Dead men are no use."

"I have no use for your life, Littlefinger. Nor do I have use for your death. Death is a mercy for which you shall _beg_."

Gloved fingers settled on Cersei's shoulder. Clamped down, lightly, a warning and a promise. Cersei struggled to gather her breath, rage still coursing molten through her veins, closing off her throat like a choking grasp. It lasted a mere instant, the touch of her husband's hand, then was gone, but the clarity of his resolve flowed through her.

"I've heard enough," Jon Snow declared, boots crunching in the hard-packed snow as he took a slow step forward. His gaze shot to where Sansa loomed. The girl's face was like marble and her hands were folded in front of her. Unspoken words passed between them. Then Jon's jaw clenched, and his eyes fell upon Baelish, hard and black.

"Olenna Tyrell," Baelish blurted desperately. "She poisoned Joffrey. Wanted a kinder match for Margaery."

"Take Lord Baelish to the courtyard," Jon ordered, clear and soft and pitiless. He cast a glance in Jaime's direction. Turning to his youngest sister, he added, "Go to my chamber. My sword is on the table. Bring it to me."

Arya Stark hastened out of the grove. Jaime seized Baelish and wrenched both of his arms roughly behind his back. Baelish's eyes went wide. His mouth opened in a rictus. Then panic set in and he began thrashing like a hooked fish. Ser Davos rushed in and took a firm grip of Baelish's right arm before he could throw off Jaime's graspless hold.

"You can make this quick, my lord, or you can make it hard," Ser Davos told Baelish evenly.

"Oh, by all means, _make it hard_ ," Jaime seethed through clenched teeth.

The assembled crowd trailed along as Baelish was marched out of the godswood and into Winterfell's central courtyard. A burly stablehand dragged an axe-pitted stump from nearby, scoring a long, wavering trench through the snow. Spectators formed a half-circle before the makeshift block. Cersei took her place at the centre. Sansa and Brienne came up alongside her, standing a pace-and-a-half away, and Lord Arryn and his retinue settled beside them.

Casting a grim, knowing look at Jaime, Davos stepped aside. Jaime proceeded to push Baelish toward the stump. Slamming his golden hand into the middle of Baelish's back and fisting his living one in Baelish's hair, Jaime forced the condemned man to kneel on the snow-covered ground, then bent his upper body over the block viciously. He held Baelish's head down long enough to whisper something in his ear before retreating to stand by Cersei's side.

The ringing screech of a sword unsheathing cut through the winter air. Baelish's head jerked up, eyes wide, frantic. Black cloak billowing behind him, Jon strode toward the block, setting his sword point-down in the snow when he came to a halt.

"Is a vicious boy who put your uncle's head on a spike truly worth my life?" Baelish pleaded.

Something in Jon's eyes shuttered as he looked down and met Baelish's upward-tilted gaze. "Do you have any last words, my lord? he asked quietly, his black-gloved fingers tightening minutely on the hilt of his sword.

Baelish's breath rushed out of him in a puff of steam. He pressed his eyes shut. "Well played, Lady Sansa."

"In the name of Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name, I, Aegon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark, sentence you to die for your crimes against the realm, including the murders of Jon Arryn, Lysa Arryn, and Joffrey Baratheon."

Cersei thought of her second-born son. Of all the sweet laughs and jolly little smiles he'd given before his sister came. She could hear the abject terror in Baelish's small, broken breaths, and it made her pulse quicken with vicious glee.

A shadow passed over Jon's face. His nose scrunched up, as if he were catching a foul scent, then his hands lifted. It was swift and clean, a silver arc and a spray of bright, red blood across the virgin snow at the base of the block. Jon tarried a moment, his eyes fixed on the carnage, the blood dripping down Baelish's mockingbird pin.

"I want Olenna Tyrell's head," Cersei hissed when Jon approached her.

"It's done," was all he said in return, brushing past her and disappearing into the castle.

Jaime's golden hand settled between her shoulders. It took every scrap of pride she had not to lean against him. Not to seek refuge in the familiar warmth of his body, the way his solid, imposing height sheltered her like an oak. How she felt whole and safe with her head tucked under his cheek in a way she never could in the embrace of a husband who stood two finger-widths shorter.

Cersei turned to look at her brother. His blue eyes held hers for the sliver of an instant. _You feel it too. Our riptide_. Letting his hand fall away, Jaime shuffled off to join Lady Brienne, followed her into the castle with Sansa.

"My lady," came a voice from behind her.

Wheeling around, Cersei met Ser Davos's grey, haggard face. "Princess," she corrected. The giddy thrill of justice done was already fading from her heart, leaving in its wake a dull, hollow sense of longing and anger.

"I beg your pardon, princess. Your husband isn't much of a man for titles. Crowns fit him even worse."

"What do you want, Ser Davos?" Cersei asked, toneless and curt. In the centre of the courtyard, a pair of grim-faced men were dragging Baelish's body off of the block, rolling it onto a canvas stretcher laid out in the snow.

"Give him time," replied the knight. "It weighs heavily on him, condemning men to death. I've seen it before."

An acid smile spread across Cersei's face. "Thank you for your intimate concern in my marriage." With that, she spun and strode into the castle, her skirts sweeping across ancient flagstones as she wended her way through corridors.

The direwolf lifted its great head off of its paws when she entered the chamber she was sharing with her husband. Jon was cleaning his sword at the table on the far side of the room. He did not look at her or utter a word in greeting. Bolting the door, she shrugged off her black cloak and hung it on the peg, then drifted to where he sat.

"Clever little scheme your sister hatched," Cersei remarked as she took up the wine flask and poured herself a goblet. Leaning back against the table beside Jon's chair, she added, "I suppose I owe her some type of apology."

Jon lowered the rag in his right hand. His eyes, however, did not lift to meet hers. "Sansa won't accept it."

"All the better," Cersei said flatly. "I didn't want her as my sister when she was wed to Tyrion. I certainly don't now."

Expelling a heavy sigh, Jon made a show of running the cleaning cloth along the sword's blade in a slow, fluid swipe. "She'll bear your presence at Winterfell now for my sake. I don't imagine she'll ever hold any love for you."

Cersei let out an indifferent hum. Raised the goblet and took a sip. "I don't want to talk about your sister, Snow."

"I don't want to talk!" Jon snapped, tossing the rag onto the tabletop in a fit of temper.

"No, you'd rather have a sulk, wouldn't you?" _The prince brooding fetchingly in the corner while all the maids swoon_. It was a cruel thing, she knew, prodding him in his unarmoured state, but her blood was up and her claws were out. There was no caging the beast prowling in her chest. She would not be dismissed; she would not be denied.

"The twins are with Marna," Jon said tightly. "Go to them. Go to your brother. _Just go_. Please. Leave me."

Setting her wine on the table, Cersei rounded the back of Jon's chair, so that she hovered above him. She looped her arms around his shoulders, brushed her hands from his sternum to the thick, strangely graceful column of his throat. "I want my husband," she told him, immovable as stone, pushing his head back to rest against her chest.

Muscles rippled under her fingers as Jon swallowed. His eyes were squeezed shut. "Your husband isn't here."

Cersei laughed. "Oh, you poor, dear fool." She massaged her thumbs across his throat. He let out a breathless gasp. "I took more lives in an instant than you shall ever take with your sword. And here I stand, Snow, _your wife_."

"It's not like on the battlefield," Jon said. Lifting his right hand, he clasped her slim wrist, gave it a feeble squeeze. "'The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.' It's what Father always said. But it just feels so _wrong_. Like I'm treading where only gods should walk. I don't like having such power. I don't like the man it makes me."

"Don't tell me you've never savoured the taste of violence. It felt good to deal Baelish justice, didn't it?"

"Aye," Jon conceded. "He sold Sansa to a monster." The pale white throat worked once more under Cersei's fingers. "What does that make me? What man did the Red Woman bring back? Sometimes I don't know."

"You are my husband," Cersei stated, bending to press a kiss to Jon's brow.

" _Cersei_ ," came the soft, faltering reply.

"Show me the wolf in your blood, Snow," Cersei intoned. "Show me here on this very table."

A tremor coursed through Jon's body at the words. Cersei felt it rattle against her arms and palms. Jon drew a sharp, shuddering breath through his nostrils, let his warm strong hand slide from her wrist along the length of her forearm. Then he rose and swept his sword off of the table. It hit the floor with a loud, ringing _clang_ , taking the goblet with it.

Framing Cersei's face between his palms, Jon manoeuvred her back against the table, eyes radiating a dark heat. Her hands flew to undo his breeches. Guided him forward as he tore up her skirts and pushed her down on the table. He seated himself within her, swiftly and completely, and she cried out and arched, clasping her legs around him.

"Fuck me, Snow," Cersei ordered, a throaty, desperate snarl.

Jon swept his hands beneath her arse and dug his fingers into its flesh. "Feels like we're fucking right now." The uncharacteristic vulgarity spoken in that whisper-soft Northern accent made warmth blossom in Cersei's chest.

"I've endured men longer than you've been alive. I am not a filly to be gentled. _Fuck me_."

And so he did, gripping her arse with bruising force, rutting into her hard enough the wine flask clattered on its tray. Pleasure shot through her like lightning. She screamed, her hands bunching in the heavy, black brocade of her skirt. _Let them all hear. I don't care_. He was grazing that sweet, sweet place inside of her, just the way she needed.

"Ah, Gods, Cersei," Jon breathed, looking down at her through the fan of his long lashes. Shifting his hands from her arse to the back of her knees, he pushed her legs toward her chest, and she threw them over his shoulders. The change in angle brought his cock deeper, so much deeper, turning every thrust into a slick stab into her spot.

"Yes, right there, Snow, _right there_ ," Cersei urged, pleasure rolling through her loins in sweet shocks.

"Say my name," her husband choked out, quiet as an exhalation. "Say it. Please. _Say it_." He was lost in the glorious agony of their joining, now, his eyes screwed shut, his hips battering into her as fiercely as a storm surge.

" _Jon_ ," Cersei said, the name flowing off of her tongue.

With a raw, animal growl, Jon kicked his tempo even faster, his brutal grip biting little bowls into the meat of her shins. The wine tray crashed to the floor noisily. Cersei watched Dornish red bleed across the flagstones in her mind's eye. They were beyond themselves, caught in the music of flesh meeting flesh, of wolf-snarls and panting gasps.

"Let me feel you come undone," Jon whispered, iron and silk, command and plea.

Cersei crested a short time later. She shouted her completion, a brazen, triumphant roar for all the castle to hear. Pleasure swept through her in sweet pulses. Made her toes curl in the black boots slung over Jon's shoulders.

Jon's hips slammed to a stop a few thrusts later. An anguished groan tore itself from his throat. His body quaked as release took him, and she felt the swell and shudder of his cock within her, the hot wash of his seed flooding her.

When they'd both gathered their breath, Cersei allowed her legs to slide off of Jon's shoulders with a soft, sated sigh. Her back ached. There was a dull burn in her thighs. She had not known the full force of a man's passion in too long. "I feel every year of my age," she remarked, no venom in her tone, just a bone-deep sense of satisfaction.

Jon grasped her left hip. Trailed the fingers of his right hand through her minge. Dipped them between her folds. "Want to feel even older, my lioness?" he goaded, rubbing her pearl as he gently rocked his half-hard cock into her.

"Call me your lioness again and I shall geld you," Cersei warned, lips quirking into a teasing smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cut to Sansa, in her bed with a pillow pressed to her ears, face twisted into a moue of digust*
> 
> That's two Lords of Harrenhal beheaded by Jon now. Seriously, I _hate_ Baelish. His death was far more satisfying to write than it should've been. Also, I concur with the general fandom consensus that Jon's birth name is Jaehaerys, but I purposely chose Aegon, the most common/generic male Targaryen name, to underscore Jon's post-revival crisis of identity.


	5. Chapter 5

Figures swam like bony black fish across the pages of the ledger spread open on the table. Setting down her quill with a weary sigh, Cersei pressed her eyes shut, sliding her middle and index fingers along her temples.

 _This is Tyrion's province_ , she thought sourly, feeling shallow skin and muscle shift over the hardness of her skull. Grain reserves, head of cattle, bolts of cloth. All the tedious minutiae of running a castle and its many holdings. Somehow, her brother could look at such scribbles and effortlessly discern waste from necessity, folly from possibility.

 _Wit is the one thing Mother gave Tyrion besides her life_. An image of Joanna Lannister at work rose in Cersei's mind. She'd collected little treasures to give her with Jaime: shells, flowers, and smooth green fragments of sea glass. Stood on tiptoe to plant the gifts on her desk and waited for her to smile down at them and ruffle their hair.

Little had they known, then, how Lady Lannister ruled the Westerlands with her lord husband, the velvet glove to his iron fist. How she'd successfully allayed House Reyne's stirrings of rebellion with savvy trading. Within two years of her death, the Reynes had risen in open revolt, and Tywin Lannister had hung their corpses at Casterly Rock as warning.

Cersei opened her eyes. Reached for the goblet of wine on the table. Leaned back against the chair and downed a gulp. _Northerners have always favoured ale over wine. I fear their cellars shall run dry before winter sees its end._

It was mostly habit that brought wine to Cersei's lips now. A large cask had arrived from Tyrion only that morning. _Something to warm you on your nameday between all_ _the Snow falling on you_ , the neat script on the scroll had read. It was clever. Everything with Tyrion had to be clever. But it was the first gift he'd given her since he was a boy.

The heavy gold bracelet Jaime had presented her with at the midday meal circled her right wrist. He'd bent over her where she sat, pressed a kiss to the wispy tufts at her temple, and then retreated from the hall with Lady Brienne.

 _How can one year feel like a thousand?_ Cersei wondered, returning the goblet to her lips for another sip.

The door creaked open a short time later. Cersei swung her gaze around. Her husband stood tentatively in the door. A battered wooden shield was slung under his left arm, and a small, green-cloaked man hovered behind his shoulder.

"Lord Reed wishes to see the twins," Jon explained.

"I fear they are sleeping," Cersei told him.

The corners of Jon's eyes crinkled as a smile broke across his face. "What witchcraft took down Jo?"

"Tiredness," answered Cersei drolly, right eyebrow slicing ceilingward.

A fraught silence followed. Lord Reed's eyes spoke what his tongue withheld. Cersei knew the look of hatred well. The Stark bannermen looked at her as she sat beside her husband in the Great Hall and saw Ned Stark's head on a spike.

 _I will not shrink for you_ , seethed Cersei silently, holding the crannogman's clear grey gaze.

Jon entered the chamber. Stood the shield against the wall beside the table with a _thunk_. The sigil painted upon its front was peeling, but the crimson leaves and wide, gash-like grin of a weirwood were unmistakeable.

"It was my mother's," Jon offered softly, his hand alighting on Cersei's shoulder.

Cersei said nothing, just picked up her quill from where it lay on the leather blotter, let her gaze drop to the ledger. Jon's hand lingered a moment. Squeezed her shoulder in gentle reassurance. Then it slipped away. Reed pushed into the room, trudging to join Jon at the cradle, the damp earthy smell clinging to him assailing Cersei's nose.

Swallowing around the hard, dry lump in her throat, Cersei flicked her eyes up to look at the shield once more. _Lyanna_ , came the memory of Robert's voice. The Stark girl had become a name whispered in the dark. A formless ghost, stripped of her own body and breath and stories, doomed to be whatever it pleased Robert most to remember.

"Ned told me once he'd know his promise was kept when you held a child of your own," said Lord Reed.

"I never truly saw a family in my future, even before I took the black," Jon confessed.

"I offered to foster you. To even betroth you to Meera in time. You would have been safe at Greywater Watch."

"I suppose Meera will have to settle for a trueborn Stark."

"Bran is a fine lad, aye. But I'd have been just as glad to call Lyanna's boy my son-by-law. Ned would not hear it." Reed paused. Sighed heavily. "He had three whole moons with you before he returned to Winterfell." Another sigh. "You were as good as his firstborn. He knew all your little smiles and pouts well before he laid eyes upon Robb."

"And yet he denied me the truth," Jon said, the words tinged more with sadness than anger.

"You were nearer his heart than the son his lady wife gave him. I imagine it felt as great a betrayal as siring a bastard. So I never told him his sister was wed in my godswood. I thought he had enough secrets to bear. A foolish mistake."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Cersei released an impatient sigh. Swept her thumb through the vane of her quill. The writing on the pages of the ledger had blurred together into a mottled smear under her unrelenting stare.

"You are more like Lyanna than you'll ever know," Reed said at last, wistfulness softening the gruff timbre of his voice. "She was young. Foolish, even. But she had a fierce heart. A _good_ heart. She was a woman of uncommon strength."

Anger surged through Cersei's gut. She twisted her body around in the chair. Skewered Reed with a withering glare. "I should have liked to see that fierce heart carry her through seventeen years as Robert Baratheon's wife."

Contempt flickered beneath the still water of Reed's face. "Lady Lyanna followed her own path."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "She spent her last days locked in a tower. Died in childbed. Fate did not spare her a woman's lot."

"She died for the man she _chose_ rather than suffer life with the beast chosen for her," Reed fired back.

"What would you call suffering the beast I was sold to by my father, Lord Reed? Weakness? The way of the world?" Cersei's words were sharp as daggers. "You know little of a woman's struggles and _nothing_ of our strength!"

Joanna started awake at the thunder of Cersei's voice. Jon cupped her curly little head. Gave her a soothing bounce. His eyes jumped to Cersei, an infuriating blend of hurt and pity pouring out of their dark, bottomless depths.

Lord Reed turned his gaze to Jon. "I am here should you wish to know more about your mother."

"Thank you, Lord Reed," Jon acknowledged with a nod. "The stories you've shared mean a great deal to me."

The beat of lizard-skin boots was lost under Joanna's shrieking wail as Reed retreated from the chamber.

"Why can't you let me have this?" Jon demanded. His voice was pitched soft, but there was a tightness in it, an anger. "I've wondered about my mother all my life. She's half my legacy. A quarter of our children's. I want this for _them_."

"This isn't about your mother, Snow," Cersei said. Setting the quill down on the table, she took a deep, bracing breath. "I feel as though I'm living under a siege. This room is my only refuge. The only place I'm welcome within these walls."

"I know," Jon said. He pressed his eyes closed. Drew a long, slow breath. He was still rocking their daughter gently. Her round little cheek had fallen to rest against his shoulder and her crying had quieted to wet sniffling whimpers. Opening his eyes after a span, he added, "You'll have to make due. I'll be gone in a few days. Once Bran is wed."

"There is no guarantee you will find what you are seeking," Cersei averred.

"I saw thousands butchered at Hardhome," Jon replied, voice catching. "All of them rose at the Night King's bidding." His gaze dropped to Joanna. She was quiet, now, eyes shut, tiny fists curled against his brown coat-of-plate. "Daenerys needs to see the enemy we face. We need her armies. And her dragons. They are our best hope."

Cersei reached to close the lid of the inkwell. Took up her goblet of wine. "You seem to have everything sorted." There was a lightness in her tone she did not feel. Dread had taken her heart in its cold and brutal grasp.

"I'm not a leader," Jon insisted, lifting his gaze to look at her. "It should have been Father. Or Robb."

Eyes falling away, Cersei said nothing, merely brought the goblet to her lips and took a sip. Jon tarried for a moment, then turned to carry their now soundly-slumbering daughter back to the cradle, setting her down beside her brother. The direwolf, resting at the base of the cradle, lifted his head to watch, then dropped it back onto his paws.

"I gave Bran the talk in Father's place," Jon remarked. "He didn't need it. He's a man now. _My little brother_."

"That surprises you? How old were you again, Snow, when the wilding girl stole your virtue? Nine-and-ten? Twenty?"

Jon glowered at Cersei. His mouth twisted into an affronted moue. "Old enough," he answered tightly.

"Most men are beasts, Snow," Cersei said tartly. "Your cocks do the thinking for you as soon as you learn their use. You may tell yourself it's love. Make fools of yourselves in love's name. But it's flesh that rules you ofter than not."

The pout darkened into a rictus of fury. "Don't speak of the things men do for love!"

Understanding dropped like an iron weight in Cersei's stomach. She swallowed. "Your brother remembers."

"He doesn't just _remember_ ," Jon snarled. "He'll never chase his children around the courtyard."

Cersei drew a deep breath. Cool dry air flooded into her lungs. "The Gods took the hand that pushed him." Her throat felt closed. "My brother is as much a cripple as yours. I suspect he shall never stop punishing himself."

"All your family's gold won't give Bran his legs back, Cersei."

"That will not keep Jaime from trying to give whatever redress he can," replied Cersei.

Jon huffed out a heavy sigh. Cast his eyes to the side. "He's my brother-by-law now, whatever I think of him."

"People who've never met Jaime are certain they know the measure of him. 'Kingslayer,' 'Oathbreaker,' 'Sisterfucker.' You cannot judge a man by what he is called. You'd see Jaime for a different man if you troubled to know him."

"He _raped_ you," Jon said sharply, eyes fixing upon her once more.

Cersei slammed her wine down on the table. Drew up straighter in the chair. "You will _not_ speak of that again."

Jon blew out a bullish snort. Closed his eyes for a count of twenty. When he opened them, he was calmer, centered. He strode toward where she sat. Framed her face between his hands. Bent to plant a kiss on her temple.

The warmth of Jon's lips bled into Cersei's skin. Loosened the tangled snarl of agitation and ire in her breast. Hands lifting, she undid the leather thong tying his hair back in a knot, carded her fingers through the freed curls.

"I don't want to quarrel with my wife on her nameday," Jon told Cersei in a hush.

Cersei's insides turned liquid. Her heart strained against her ribs. "How did you learn?" she asked.

"Lady Brienne," Jon said softly. "I ran into her in the yard. She'd had a raven from her father. He's given his consent. She said she could think of no better gift to give Jaime. Must have thought I knew today to be your nameday."

"I haven't celebrated it since I was a girl," Cersei replied. _Not since Uncle Kevan laughed when I asked for a crossbow that I might join Father on his hunts._

"I am yours tonight, Cersei," Jon offered, a spill of silk in her ear. "Any way you would have me."

A dark thrill chased down Cersei's spine. Wetness pooled between her thighs. Her nails bit into the nape of his neck. There were a thousand sweet tortures she'd dreamt of visiting upon his fine, young body, ever since she claimed him. Things she'd wanted to do to every man she'd ever laid with but never dared to indulge outside daydreams.

"Trust me, Snow, you do not want to know," Cersei warned.

" _Tell me_ ," Jon urged.

"I want to pin you under me and choke you. I want to stripe your arse with a switch. I want to fuck you with a golden cock."

There was a sharp intake of breath. A pause. "Do you even own such a thing, you wicked woman?"

"Would you let me fuck you if I did?"

Another inhalation. Another protracted pause. "Aye," Jon whispered at last.

"Strip. Get on the bed. On your belly." The words crackled through Cersei's body like lightning. She hadn't felt the glorious swell of power in her gut since her reign, when Jon had been a pretty spoil, hers to do with as she pleased.

Jon pulled away from her. Black eyes bored into hers as he dropped his hands. Began unbuckling his coat-of-plate. Cersei rose from the chair smoothly, drifted to the door and slid the bolt into place with a dull, screeching scrape. Blood pounded through her veins, fast and hard and unrelenting, like the charging of calvary into battle.

The gold-inlaid mahogany box was concealed beneath the false bottom of her trunk. She'd commissioned its contents in the early days of her reign from the same goldsmith in the Westerlands who had crafted Jaime's false hand. Tyrion had sent her gowns from the capital a moon past. Perhaps he knew of the trunk's secret. Perhaps not.

When she stood with the box in hand, her husband was spread out on the furs, a feast of pale torchlit flesh. His legs were parted slightly, revealing the swell of his bollocks and the tiny, dusky crease between his arse cheeks. A smile curved her lips. Her sex slickened further. She admired the sight for a moment before moving toward the bed.

Putting the box down on her nightstand, Cersei picked up the small, clay pot from where it sat beside the candlestick. Maester Wolkan gave her the salve to soothe her nipples. She had no use for it now that she'd weaned the twins.

"Look at you," Cersei intoned, brushing a palm along a muscular thigh to cup an arse cheek.

Jon craned his head to the side on the furs. Tilting a half-lidded gaze up at her, he encouraged, "Go on."

A rough little grunt escaped Jon when Cersei pushed a salve-coated finger into him. He was impossibly hot and snug. She wished, then, that she had a true cock to feel him, but having a man submit in this manner was blessing enough. By the time she worked three fingers inside of him, he was clutching at the furs and breathing in sharp, fitful pants.

Cersei stepped away once satisfied. Hastily removed her dress and shift and boots. Jon rolled over onto his back. Flashed a smile, at once wolfish and honey-sweet, dark eyes smouldering at her through the splay of his long lashes. His manhood was hard as steel, jutting proudly toward his navel from the wiry, black thatch of hair at its root.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jon remarked, taking his cock in hand as she opened the box.

"As the dying leaves blaze with the turn of summer to autumn," replied Cersei, taking the leather harness out of the box. She knew her beauty was waning. Her belly was softer than it had been before the twins. Her breasts a little lower. There would be silver threaded through the gold of her hair, one of these days, as there was now in Jaime's.

Dark eyes dropped to the golden cock as Cersei looped the belt of the harness around her waist. The apple of Jon's throat bobbed in obvious trepidation, but his right hand continued to move upon his cock in slow, lazy strokes. His left hand smoothed up the scar-strewn expanse of his torso, the thumb flicking across a small, brown nipple.

"Will it hurt?" Jon broached softly once she had finished buckling the harness in place.

"I imagine so," Cersei answered, smearing salve onto the golden cock.

She wanted to take him on all fours. Wanted to fist pitiless fingers in his curls and smash his pretty face into the furs. But his thighs parted for her readily. Strong legs that had stood on battlefields and roamed the wilds beyond the Wall. He was surrendering to her, this man she'd made her husband, and somehow that only proved his mettle more.

Kneeling on the bed between Jon's thighs, Cersei gripped his slender hips, guided his round arse up onto her lap. With a sharp, oddly instinctive jerk of her pelvis, she fitted the crown of the golden cock against his hole.

" _Wreck me_ ," Jon told her in a growling rasp. "I don't want to be able to sit a horse for a fortnight."

"It's a long ride to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," returned Cersei.

"Aye, and I'll feel what you did to me all the way."

There was no grace in the way Cersei breached Jon, shoving the golden cock deep inside of him in a single, hard push. His head flung back on the pillow, eyes squeezing shut, mouth rounding on a strangled gasp. She rocked into him a few times, then fell forward onto her hands, folding his legs back toward his chest and claiming his mouth.

Panting grunts thumped into her mouth as she set a rolling tempo. Her husband wrapped his legs around her waist. Spurred his heels into her arse. One hand cupped the nape of her neck. The other settled in the small of her back. He kissed her, the wet, filthy drag of his tongue across her palate in rhythm with the drag of her breasts across his chest. After a time, she unlatched her mouth from his, pulling her head up just enough to meet the dragonglass eyes.

"Right there," Jon grit out between harsh, breathless grunts. "Just... _right there_...it's _good_."

Cersei gave a pleased hum. Sealed her mouth over Jon's once more. She fucked into him steadily. Her pleasure was more in her head than her loins, in having a man pinned under her, all straining muscles and bridled strength.

The easy rhythm continued until Cersei drew herself upright. Jon uncurled his legs. Planted his feet flat on the bed. With the greater leverage the change in position afforded her, Cersei upped her pace, spearing into Jon savagely. Choked gasps spilled from his lips. He clutched her thigh with his left hand. Closed the right around his cock.

"Ah, fuck, _Cersei_ ," Jon groaned raggedly, hand a blur as he beat himself. His toned belly flexed as his crisis mounted. It soon overtook his body, and he cried out and shuddered, white spurts spitting across his vicious scars.

A smile curved Cersei's lips in the aftermath. Jon was an exquisite sight: body lax, curls wild, mouth ajar and panting. She gentled her right hand along his side, slow as dripping honey, from the crest of his hipbone to the pit of his arm. Bending down, she lapped at the rough, gnarled scars. The tang of Jon's still-warm seed burst across her tongue.

Jon winced when she finally shifted back onto her haunches and pulled out. Black eyes peeled open to look up at her. "Seven Hells," he sighed between quiet, panting breaths, his Northern accent as soft as fresh-fallen snow. Lifting his right hand, he brushed his palm up her flank, moulded it around her breast and teased his thumb across her nipple.

Cersei curled her fingers around Jon's member. It was already stirring anew. "You seem to have enjoyed yourself."

"Aye," Jon said. "I suppose I'll be singing a different tune when I'm stuck in a saddle."

Heat spiked through Cersei's loins. She drew a slow breath. _My bed shall not know his warmth for at least a moon_. "On your knees, Snow," she ordered in a low, throaty voice. "Let me help you remember this night even longer."

"You'll be the end of me, wife," groused Jon, rolling onto his knees and propping himself up as bid.


	6. Chapter 6

The slow rustle of a leather sword-belt unlooping seemed strangely loud in the winter hush hanging over the hall. Lady Brienne laid the longsword beside its brother on the time-worn oak of the table and then took a step back. "I am told your house's ancestral sword was melted down to make these blades, my lady," she explained evenly.  
  
Sansa held Brienne's gaze from her place at the centre of the table. "Are you not pledged to House Stark?” she asked, quiet authority in her tone.  
  
"I am, my lady," replied Brienne. "I would thus see what rightfully belongs to House Stark returned."  
  
"The sword is yours, Lady Brienne. You have served my family bravely. That is worth more than an heirloom."  
  
With a tight, deferential nod, Brienne stepped forward again, retrieving the lion-pommeled sword from the table. "Thank you, Lady Stark,” she said, brushing aside her cloak to refasten the belt. "I pray this sword continues to serve you well."  
  
Cersei's gaze tarried on Brienne for an instant. The blue eyes remained averted from her. There was softness in the knight's cheeks and a pinkness to her lips, the only traces of womanhood above the heavy, black plate she wore.  
  
_Has my brother unlaid what you hide from the world?_ thought Cersei, bitterness churning in her stomach. The answer, of course, was known to half the castle. Winter's cold was a cruelty; the warmth of skin a kindness. Gossip flowed freely through the ancient stone halls now that white stretched out to meet every horizon.  
  
Cersei flicked her gaze to where Jaime stood a pace behind Brienne with a large wooden box perched in his arms. The second sword lay like a fence between them on the table. Flat light from the high windows glinted off its gold hilt. _Joffrey's sword_. Sorrow twisted in Cersei's chest. Her fingers longed to feel the grip. Find some faint lingering heat. The clench of Jaime's jaw betrayed a twin pain in his own heart.  
  
Jon caught Cersei's hand under the table. Pulled it toward his lap. Pressed it against the skirt of his coat-of-plate. Gloved fingers wove between her own, the warmth of living skin seeping through the supple, black leather.  
  
"Father's sword would have passed to you," Sansa said, turning to where Bran sat with Meera Reed on her left.  
  
"I was never meant to have it." The boy's voice was surprisingly deep. Deeper than Jon's, even, and somehow _older_. Rumour said he spent his days talking to the tree in the godswood. Cersei wondered if the fall had left him touched.  
  
Sansa nodded. Slid the red scabbard to Arya on her right. "You always wanted a real sword, didn't you?"  
  
"I _have_ a real sword," Arya shot back. "He probably gave it a stupid name anyway. The first one had a stupid name."  
  
Cersei thinned her lips into a hard line. Swallowed against the stone lodged in her throat. Jon's fingers tightened. Gave her hand a light, reassuring squeeze as Brienne nodded at Jaime, prompting him to stride forward.  
  
The box met the tabletop in front of Jon with a _clunk_. "My cousins Martyn and Willem were taken hostage during the war. They were squires. _Boys_. That didn’t stop a Stark bannerman from breaking into their cell and murdering them to settle a score against _me_." Jaime's voice was tight and clipped. His square jaw clenched. Understanding congealed in the pit of Cersei's gut. "Robb Stark started the war. Kept me chained up like a dog for a year. But he sent my cousins' bones to their father. He showed his enemy honour, and got none in return."  
  
There came a sharp intake of breath from beside Cersei. Jon's gentle clasp on her hand slackened. His fingers slipped out from between hers, and he rose to his feet, the chair skidding across the flagstones with a dull screech. " _How?_ " was all he managed to grit out, his hands flattening atop the simple, unadorned lid of the box.  
  
"The Freys thought it would be amusing to—"  
  
"I know of the insult done to Robb's body," Jon said in a harsh growl. "How do I know these are my brother's bones?" Tilting her head up, Cersei saw that the large, black eyes were glistening. Her husband stood half-a-head shorter than her twin, yet he seemed no slighter with his face framed by bulk of the thick, brown pelt wrapped around the shoulders of his cloak.  
  
"They paraded his corpse around their holdings as a spectacle for half a year," Jaime returned. "It was simply a matter of convincing the new Lord Frey that, if he didn't wish to trouble himself to find in what village crypt the body had been left to rot, perhaps one of his brothers would."  
  
Leather squeaked as Jon's fingers clamped around the edge of the box. "What of his lady mother? His wife?"  
  
"Thrown into the Trident," replied Jaime, weariness bringing the grit of his voice to the fore.  
  
Jon pressed his eyes shut. Heaved a sharp sniff through his nose. His eyes snapped open a beat later. He gave Jaime a curt nod, then slid his hands down to grip the base of the box, hefting it up into the cradle of his arms. Breaking from the table, he strode toward the archway leading out of the hall, black cloak billowing behind him.  
  
Jaime's eyes leapt to Cersei as she rose from her seat. Uncertainty was written in the deep furrows scoring his brow. She held his clear blue gaze for an instant before gathering her skirts and hastening after her husband.  
  
"Do you plan to favour us with a bastard's low breeding for the rest of your days?" Cersei hissed when she caught up with Jon in the courtyard.  
  
A cloud of steam burst into the air in front of Jon's face. His boots cut swishing tracks through the newly-fallen snow. "What courtesies are owed for a murdered brother's bones?" he asked in a hush that belied caged fury.  
  
"You are a prince of the realm, Snow, whether you wish to be or not. Jaime is Lord of Casterly Rock and your _brother-by-law_. He may serve at your pleasure now, but you still owe him the respect that a man of his station is due, if not your love."  
  
Jon said nothing, just plunged onward down a narrow, torchlit path that ran between the castle and the outer wall. He turned sharply after thirty yards, pounding down a short flight of stairs that ended in a heavy, snow-encrusted door.  
  
Winter's pall hung heavier in the crypts than it did in the outside world. The air was stale and still and deathly-cold. Cersei followed her husband down, down, down, past endless candle-strewn niches guarded by tall stone figures. Dead kings and lords. A hundred generations of Starks. Their hard stone eyes seemed to stab into her.  
  
Jon slowed when they reached the first statue of a woman. Halted before the young lord two niches down from her. Stooping over, he placed the box at the foot of his brother's statue, then picked up a candlelighter lying nearby.  
  
Cersei's gaze drifted inexorably to the carved face of the woman as her husband set to relighting guttered tapers. Two decades of damp had eroded the features. _How could Robert forget a face he professed to love so ardently?_ The faces of her children endured in her mind's eye. Even Steffon, who had been but a wisp, tiny and born too soon.  
  
"We'll inter him properly when I return from beyond the Wall," Jon declared after a time. He tarried for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the stone face before him as a small, yellow flame flickered at the end of the thin stick in his hand. Then he walked to the niche between Robb's and Lyanna's. Knelt again and began the ritual of lighting candles.  
  
The carved visage of Eddard Stark was at once familiar and strange. There was a sternness in it that was true to life, and a rugged, winter-hardened strength in the hands wrapped around the grip of the greatsword stood before him. But the stonecarver had got the features wrong. The brow was a little too high. The nose a little too thin.  
  
_I am cursed to remember Ned Stark's face with perfect clarity_ , thought Cersei, an ill twinge coursing through her gut. Even after seven years, she recalled the fool's face when he'd dared to confront her, pity and disgust in his expression. And she recalled the grey, bloated, crow-ravaged thing that men had pulled from the spike when Joffrey tired of its sight.  
  
"A rather poor likeness, isn't it?" Cersei remarked, striving to keep her tone mild. The unnatural chill of the crypts was gnawing into her bones like a thousand sharp, vicious teeth, spreading an aching numbness through her body. She twisted her black-gloved hands together. _I have no place here. I am not welcome even among Winterfell's dead._  
  
Jon drew himself upright. Gave the statue a brief inspection. "Aye, it is," he said, his voice weighted with sorrow. He turned toward her, then, the candlelighter flaming weakly in his right hand, eyes telling her what his tongue could not.  
  
Cersei's heart seized. She forced herself to swallow. "I wished for your father to be sent to the Wall."  
  
"You named him a traitor to the crown." There was no anger in Jon's voice now. Only pain.  
  
"Lord Stark would have brought Robert's wrath upon my children," Cersei retorted, more defensively than intended. "No doubt he told himself that exposing me was honour at its highest. He was always Robert's dog, dancing at his feet. But I counselled that he be shown mercy. Joffrey promised your sister he would grant mercy. He chose violence in the end. It pleased him more in the moment." A mirthless hum of a laugh escaped Cersei. "He was my son in every sense. I hoped he would take after his father. Hope is the bane of fools."  
  
Jon let his eyes slip shut. Blew out a puff of steam. His face seemed wrought of shadow and flame in the candlelight. The stick in his hand had gone out. A thin tendril of smoke rose from its tip. Melted into the silence-laden air.  
  
"What would Father think of the man I've become?" Jon said at last, opening his eyes.  
  
Cersei strode forward. Bracketed her husband's face between her hands. His gaze connected with hers. In the low light, his eyes seemed impossibly, infinitely black, like a night sky in which the moon and stars had yet to be hung. She smiled at him, a broad, rueful stretch of her lips. "We cannot live for the dead, Snow," she told him.  
  
"How many died so I could live? What child is worth a war?" Jon creaked, candlelight catching in his shining eyes.  
  
"I would have happily started ten-thousand wars if that was the price the Gods demanded for putting the twins in my womb."  
  
Jon's lips curled into a pout. Parted to reveal a sliver of white teeth. A surge of heat slithered through Cersei's insides. Sliding her hands to the nape of Jon's neck, she pulled him to her and stole his words with a hard, conquering kiss. He stood stock-still for an instant. Then his hands snuck under her cloak, pressing into her back, urging her closer.  
  
_Perhaps this is what Jaime felt that day in the sept._ Cersei's blood was afire. Need seared its way down her spine. She wanted to push Jon down onto the earthen floor and ride him until he forgot everything but the shape of her name. Wanted to force the doubts from his heart with her certainty and affirm what they were in the sight of gods and ghosts.  
  
_Let them watch. Let all the dead Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell judge. I have borne the scorn of the living._ Jon's lips were warm as they moved against Cersei's. The bristles of his beard rasped lightly against her chin. She kissed him harder, clutching at his head just below his tied-back hair and drinking in his raw, hungry growls.  
  
They parted after a time. Cersei stepped back. Fussed with the front of her black gown reflexively.  
  
"Theon Greyjoy used to boast of taking girls down here," Jon remarked, a faint wistfulness colouring his voice.  
  
"I don't recall a great many songs about Ironborn princes wooing fair maids," rejoined Cersei.  
  
Jon cracked a fragile smile. Wrenching his gaze away, he turned from Cersei, strode toward Lyanna Stark's statue. He stood staring at the soft, serene stone face for a span, then crouched to begin lighting the dimmed candles.  
  
Cersei jerked her gaze to the full-bearded spectre of Brandon Stark where it stood three paces to the right of Lyanna. "We cannot spare tallow for the dead with winter upon us, Snow," she said after a stretch of silence had passed.  
  
"What hope is there for the future if we dishonour our past?" Jon replied, his tone at once tired and firm.  
  
Returning her gaze to the crouching form of her husband, Cersei sucked in a short, sharp breath through her nose. "The Stark words are a warning. Your ancestors knew the peril of winter. They wouldn't ask waste in their honour."  
  
"Aye, you're right," Jon conceded, lighting the last candle. "I'll speak to Sansa about keeping the candles to close kin." Rising from his knees, he brushed off the dust clinging to the skirt of his coat-of-plate, then turned to face Cersei. "When I'm beyond the Wall, if you wish to get away from Northern eyes, no one will trouble you down here or in the godswood."  
  
"These are not my dead, Snow," Cersei pronounced, a little tartly. "Nor do I keep your gods."  
  
"You are my _wife_ , Cersei," Jon snapped. "You share my bed, you eat at my table, and your bones will lie beside mine." Righteous fury choked off his words, making his breath come fast and harsh, his hands shake at his sides. Gathering himself after a moment, he added, "Unless you wish to lie at Casterly Rock. But I won't have you denied your place."  
  
"And what of my place should you not return from your little jaunt beyond the Wall?" pressed Cersei.  
  
"The Dreadfort is mine. Sansa wants nothing to do with it. You'll have to hold it for Damon until he comes of age."  
  
"Your sister's bannermen look at me with murder in their eyes. I don't expect I'd last beyond the twins' first nameday were you to die."  
  
Jon dragged his gaze away from Cersei's once more. Scrubbed his right hand across his mouth. He stood for a moment, unease inscribed in the shallow crease between his brows, then spun to face the likeness of his mother. Plucking a ragged, dust-covered feather out of the cup of the statue's open right hand, he released a sigh.  
  
"You cannot compel the North to love me as you do," Cersei told Jon in the gentlest voice she could muster.  
  
"I don't want this to be all the twins know of their mother," Jon replied in an achingly soft hush. "How can stone hold your wit, or your fierce, terrible love for your children, or that thing you do with your brow when you're cross?"  
  
Warmth swelled in Cersei's chest. Strained against her ribcage. "I do not 'do a thing' when I am cross."  
  
Jon returned the feather to the statue's hand. Wheeling around, he favoured Cersei with a small, tentative simper. "You wield that brow like a blade," he japed. "Did they have a master-at-arms for that at Casterly Rock?"  
  
"Growing up a Lannister is its own training, Snow," replied Cersei, her lips quirking into an answering smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea on the timeline here:
> 
> The events of the first three fics in this series take place within the same timeframe as season 7 (i.e., 304 AL). Cersei got pregnant with the twins on her wedding night. Daenerys overthrew her when she was about six months along. She was allowed to wait out the remainder of her pregnancy and given a one-month grace after the twins' birth. By the time Jon and Cersei arrived in Winterfell after fleeing the capital, about a year had passed since their marriage, and thus we're now in 305 AL.
> 
> According to the [Game of Thrones Wiki](http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/Timeline), Cersei was born in 362 AL in the TV continuity, making her 42 in season 7. I incorrectly calculated her age as 43 in S7 when writing the initial chapters of this fic. I've gone back and retconned her age down to 42 in Chapter 3. So, after the Chapter 5 nameday, she's now 43, not 44.


	7. Chapter 7

Cersei lifted her goblet to her lips to hide a grimace. Her husband's head was lowered, eyes focused fixedly upon his half-empty trencher, bearded cheeks bulging and flexing as his jaw worked steadily to mash his mouthful. The smack of his chewing boomed in her ear, drowning out the clamour of the hall and the high, tuneless warble of the lutist.  
  
Jon smeared his crust through the gravy on his trencher. Shoved it into his mouth roughly and tore off a large bite. Noticing the hard, disapproving press of Cersei's gaze after a moment, he forced the food down his gullet in a gulp. "Why are you giving me that look?" he asked in a low tone, the scent of meat and ale thick on his breath.  
  
Cersei's right brow shot up. She set her wine down. "You eat with all the grace of swine at the trough, Snow."  
  
"No one troubles to teach the bastard boy at the low table manners," Jon replied, face twisting into a glower. He held her gaze for a beat, then shrugged, punching the bread down onto the trencher and swiping it through the gravy.  
  
Perhaps it was the wine in Cersei's belly. Perhaps it was the air of merriment. When her husband brought the crust to his mouth and gnawed off another piece, she leant in and whispered in his ear, "Imagine it's my cunt you're eating."  
  
Jon's jaw instantly stopped working. A spluttering sound burst out of him, followed by a rough, hacking swallow.  
  
"You certainly know how to savour _that_ ," Cersei intoned. She settled her free hand on Jon's thigh and slid it inward. Ran it up the inseam of his breeches, into the vee of his slightly-parted legs, fitting the curve of his loins in her palm. _Let the North see me for a wanton wife_ , she thought at her husband's sharp breath. _They already think little of me_. From the high table, where Bran Stark sat with his new bride, down through the lower tables, they would talk.  
  
There was colour in Jon's cheeks when Cersei drew back. But his eyes bore a dark intensity she now knew well. He made an exquisite sight, strung between shame and hunger, his arousal straining into the secret of her touch. The tiniest of gasps slipped from his lips, and he canted his hips up ever-so-slightly, seeking greater pressure.  
  
She pictured ripping off his fine clothes, the sleeveless black velvet tunic and the high-collared, ember-red silk shirt. The garb had been sent to him a moon past by his aunt. Now he sat, stranger to himself, the image of a dead prince. A silver wolf flanked the crimson dragon on the tunic's front, but it was still a look suited for a gentle, southern clime.  
  
Her own gown seemed equally out-of-place among the drab greys and greens of the assembled Northerners and Valemen. It was a dress made for court, rich, ochre-on-gold silk with the wrap cut and billowing sleeves traditional to the Westerlands. Yet it had struck her as more suitable for the occasion than any of her sombre black or Lannister red gowns.  
  
"Are you unwell, princess?" came an even voice from Cersei's left. "You've barely touched your food."  
  
Cersei pulled her hand back. Turned to Brienne with a false smile. Jon grunted and shifted uncomfortably beside her. "Northern fare does not agree with me, I am afraid," she said as her husband loaded more food onto his trencher.  
  
It was a half-truth. A suckling pig sat on a platter on the table betwixt her and Jon. Its smell was unexpectedly foul to her nose, something of a cross between the hot scent of iron and the stale, sweaty reek of a sickbed. Jon was on his second helping, while Cersei was still picking at roast chicken and bland, undressed greens from the glass gardens.  
  
"You should eat," urged Brienne. "I imagine we shall not see another feast for some time."  
  
Cersei cast a glance over Brienne's shoulder. The tarnished gold of the back of Jaime's head was turned to her. He was talking to his knighted sellsword, the one with the sharp, foul-seeming face and the sharper, fouler tongue. Picking up her goblet from the table, she broadened her smile, asked, "When shall we fete the union of our houses?"  
  
"Come spring," replied Brienne, a little ruefully. "My father wishes to see me wed in our family's ancestral sept."  
  
"The maesters of the Citadel say we are due for the longest winter in centuries."  
  
"I pray they are wrong, princess."  
  
With a noncommittal hum, Cersei brought the pewter goblet to her lips, draining a large swig of wine into her belly. She hazarded a look at where the Stark bannermen were rowed along the table opposite. A bear of a man clad in tatty furs sat at the very end, gnawing on a hunk of chicken in his hand, its juices dripping into his bushy red beard. His gaze was trained on Brienne, a bowman sighting his target in the distance, determined and immovable.  
  
Colour rose on the crests of Brienne's cheekbones. She dropped her gaze to the table. Gripped the handle of her fork. Jaime's head snapped around. He locked gazes with the man, eyes narrowed, chin tipped up in challenge.  
  
"Why was that _beast_ granted a lordship?" Cersei hissed, treating her husband to a withering look.  
  
Jon lifted his downcast head. Swung his black eyes around to look at Cersei. His jaw worked, slow, deliberate bites. "The Free Folk were promised lands south of the Wall," he said once he had cleared his mouth to speak.  
  
"And so you must let a wildling play at being a lord and inflict his vulgarity upon your brother's wedding feast?"  
  
"Tormund is my _friend_ ," Jon countered, a quietly savage fury entering his voice. "He was an enemy, once, like you. He did terrible things. Then he fought with me at Hardhome. Helped retake Winterfell. He's earned my respect and trust."  
  
Cersei brought the goblet to her lips. Took a slow sip. "Where do you plan to settle the wildlings?"  
  
"The Gift," answered Jon. "It isn't part of the Seven Kingdoms. It was given to the Night's Watch for their upkeep. The Free Folk won't suffer kings. _Or queens_. So I asked Sansa to give Tormund a title and holding here in the North. He'll serve as Protector of the Gift. The Free Folk will have the crown's protection. They won't be its subjects."  
  
A sudden _thunk_ sounded from Cersei's left. She whipped her head around. Jaime was glaring at Tormund. Left hand clutching his goblet in a white-knuckled grip, he seethed, "Give me _one_ reason I shouldn't do it, Bronn."  
  
"You don't have a sword and throttling is two-handed work," Bronn returned with a nonchalant shrug.  
  
Jaime's mouth flattened. He favoured Bronn with a rancorous look. "That was two reasons."  
  
Bronn's chair squealed against the floor as he stood. "Two _good_ reasons," he said, patting Jaime on the shoulder. Grabbing his tankard, he downed a quick, bracing swig. "You just sit your rich arse there. Let me earn your coin."  
  
The sellsword slinked off and disappeared into the thick press of merrymakers gathered at the far end of the hall. Jaime cast a glance at Cersei, brows slanted upward slightly, jaw hanging just enough to bare a slice of white teeth. It was an exasperated, half-angry look she knew well, one she'd put on Jaime's face more times than she could count. Then Brienne laid a hand overtop Jaime's right forearm. Blue eyes found each other like sea meeting sky.  
  
Cersei's lips twitched into a pained smile. Her gaze fell to where her hands were folded in her lap. A heavy moment passed, and then gentle fingers caught her chin, urged her head around to meet achingly open black eyes.  
  
"I wish this is how I remembered our wedding," whispered Jon, so quietly his voice was almost lost in the din.  
  
The thrum of Cersei's heart stuttered. Her smile broadened, belying a fragility like faint, spider-silk cracks in glass. "My wedding to Robert was a grand affair," she told Jon. "Seventeen years of boredom and misery followed."  
  
Jon's fingers unfurled around the curve of Cersei's cheek. "I think Bran and Meera will be happy together."  
  
Cersei thought of the scrawny spindle of Bran Stark perched on a windowsill against the glare of an overcast sky. Of Jaime's hand flying forward, and Catelyn Stark's worn, tired hands weaving a prayer wheel at her son's bedside. _The Gods are weavers, too, twining together sorrow and joy. Perhaps they do not know one from the other_.  
  
A large hand thumped Jon on the back. He started and jerked his head around. His hand slipped from Cersei's face. Cersei craned her neck around in kind to see Bronn looming over Jon with Tormund at his side. Both men had wide grins slashing across their faces, and the wildling was holding a battered, bulging skin aloft by its belt-strap.  
  
"Enough of your grape-water and that piss you southerners call ale," Tormund growled in his thick accent. Dragging Jon's empty tankard across the table, he uncapped the skin and tipped out a stream of white, vile-smelling liquid. "Fermented goat's milk. The drink of a man with the blood of the First Men. Not some fancy swill for fancy princes."  
  
"You get used to it," Bronn said in a mock-conciliatory tone, setting a pair of tankards down on the table.  
  
"I _know_ what it tastes like," Jon shot back, mouth curling into a sour little twist.  
  
Tormund gave a mighty roar of a laugh. "He knows what it tastes like! Aye, boy, that you do!" He thudded Jon between the shoulders, then bent over his right arm where it rested on the table, sloshing milk into the tankards.  
  
Bronn pulled a chair from the rear table. Shoved it into the gap between Cersei and Brienne. Dropped down breezily. "Plenty of peculiar tastes beyond the Wall," he remarked, raising his tankard to his mouth and downing a belt.  
  
Cersei rolled her eyes. Edged her chair closer to Jon's. His head snapped around, the black eyes wide, apologetic.  
  
Tormund favoured Davos with a slightly menacing grin. The knight shifted one seat from his place on Jon's right. Throwing himself into the vacated chair, Tormund grabbed his tankard and tossed back a long, hearty sip of the drink. He slammed the tankard down on the table a moment later. Wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his mangy fur coat. "Few of you kneeler cunts have the stones to live as the Free Folk do," he told Bronn, his voice like rolling thunder.  
  
"Nothing like a bellyful of fresh seal and a faceful of a free woman's twat," Bronn crooned wistfully.  
  
Disgust roiled in Cersei's stomach. "Tyrion may find your common filth amusing, but I assure you, _I do not_."  
  
A grin broke across Bronn's face, a slick, sharp curve with all of Jaime's guile and none of his charm. Motioning loosely toward Jon with his tankard, he said, "Don't tell me you've never made a throne out of this one's pretty face."  
  
"Don't talk to my _wife_ like that!" Jon snapped, heat burning in his coal-dark eyes as he pinned Bronn with a glare.  
  
"The same wife who polishes your tiny little sword under the table at a kneeler feast?" Tormund needled.  
  
Jon swung a furious scowl at Tormund. "Once. You saw it _once_. It was cold and I was _dead_."  
  
Tormund gawped at Jon for a beat. Then he released a booming gale of laughter. Pounded the table with a huge fist. Once his laughter had abated, he slid Jon's tankard to the very edge of the table, ordered, " _Drink_ , Jon Snow."  
  
Closing his fingers around the tankard, Jon raised it to his lips and took a slow, deliberate pull of the drink. Cersei saw his throat flex where a snow-pale strip of it peeked out from above the high collar of his dark red shirt.  
  
"Your uncle would weep if he could see you sitting there," came a gruff voice from behind them suddenly.  
  
Jon lowered his tankard to the table. Twisted body around in his chair. "Lord Glover," he said by way of greeting. There was a stillness in his face, now, like a layer of ice crusted over a pond, and a winter-sharpness to his words. "Last we found ourselves together in this hall, you bent the knee and named me King in the North, as I recall."  
  
"I swore fealty to Ned Stark's son, not Rhaegar Targaryen's," rejoined Glover, cheeks a blotchy red.  
  
"I _never_ wanted to be king," Jon told the lord softly. "I never wanted the North, much less the Iron Throne."  
  
Lord Glover blew out a dismissive snort. Took a sure, swift step forward, bringing him to stand directly in front of Jon. "Yet, here you are, lording over us. Shaming your uncle's memory. Inviting Lannisters and wildling filth into his hall."  
  
Six chairs screeched against the flagstones as Jon, Jaime, Brienne, Bronn, Tormund and Davos sprung up in unison. An uneasy quiet descended upon the hall. Time seemed suspended as the six stood facing down the one. Cersei reached out with both hands, capturing her husband's arm where it lay stiff at his side, fingers curled into a tight fist.  
  
"I see the lions have the dragon by the balls," scoffed Lord Glover, seemingly undaunted by the odds.  
  
" _Don't_ ," Jon said in a low tone, part plea, part warning.  
  
"You going to carve my tongue out, boy? Isn't that what Lannisters do to men who dare speak truth to them?"  
  
Jon stood firm as Glover's greater height bore down on him. Squared his shoulders and drew a sharp, bracing breath. "I don't care what you say within your own walls, Lord Glover." A tiny quake shuddered through the arm in Cersei's grasp. "But you will not insult my wife within these walls. You will not take my father from me. Nor tell me what friends to keep."  
  
Davos stepped closer to Glover. "Your prince has spoken," he stated evenly, placing a hand on the lord's shoulder. "Might I suggest taking a turn in the godswood, my lord? Ale goes to a man's head. Fresh air helps clear it."  
  
"This bastard is no prince of mine," snapped Glover. "I will not see the North surrendered to Targaryen invaders."  
  
"The North lived under Targaryen rule for three-hundred years," Jaime drawled, his voice thick with contempt.  
  
"Your food grows cold, husband," Cersei remarked, striving to impart a forbearance she did not feel into her voice. Dark eyes dropped to her as if tugged by a string. Jon drew a long, deep breath, the tension in his body easing.  
  
"How low must a man sink to take orders from a Lannister whore?" snarled Lord Glover.  
  
Wrath warped the beauty of Jon's face. He ripped his arm free of the clasp of Cersei's fingers. Surged toward Glover. His fist slammed into the lord's face hard. The man let out a loud, ragged shout, stumbling back in a shocked stupor. Jon readied another blow. Tormund caught him around the chest before he could land it. Stayed him with strong arms.  
  
"You fucking _traitor_ ," Glover spat, wiping at the blood streaming from his nose with the back of his hand.  
  
" _Enough_ ," came a hard, clear voice. Sansa Stark had descended from the high table and now stood a pace from Jon. A red braid spilled over the shoulder of her dusk-blue gown. Her hands were folded as if clutching an invisible sword. "I would remind you, Lord Glover, that my brother, his wife, and Ser Jaime Lannister are guests of House Stark."  
  
"Did bread and salt protect your true brother and a hundred good Northern men?" challenged Glover.  
  
"Do it, then. Avenge your king." Jaime smirked. Cocked his head. Spread out both arms in an open-palmed gesture. "No sword. Wine in my belly. Even _you_ should be able to manage. It's almost too perfect, isn't it? _A wedding feast_."  
  
"Take Lord Glover to his chamber and bar the door," Sansa directed coolly, turning her gaze to Lady Brienne.  
  
With a solemn nod, the knight took Lord Glover by the upper arm, dragging him through the crowd and out of the hall. The muted drone of chatter broke through the silence. Tormund, Bronn, Davos, and Jaime returned to their seats. Sansa eyed Jon for a weighted moment, then bunched her heavy, brocade skirt in her fingers and retreated.  
  
"What will be done with him?" Cersei hazarded when her husband slumped into the chair on her right.  
  
"He won't swing, if that's your hope," Jon answered. The words were sharp despite the hushed timbre of his voice. Picking up his tankard, he brought it to his lips and took a swig, the red of Glover's blood bright against his knuckles.  
  
Cersei firmed her lips into a line. Inhaled a slow, steadying breath. "I gather your sister favours justice to mercy."  
  
Jon lowered the tankard in his right hand. "Aye," he said softly, his eyes fraught as they swept around to meet hers. "She would have taken Last Hearth out from under Smalljon Umber's widow and son as payment for Rickon's life."  
  
"That is a far greater mercy than my lord father would've shown a vassal house that sold his son to the enemy."  
  
Releasing a weary sigh, Jon grabbed the napkin from beside his trencher, wiped his blood-smeared knuckles clean. "The North mustn't fall apart. Not with the Great War nearly upon us. We need the full support of the south."  
  
A sudden commotion called Cersei's gaze to the high table. Two lord's daughters were tearing at Bran's leather jerkin. Meera leapt out of her chair, shielding her husband bodily from the girls, frantically trying to beat away their hands. She wore a simple grey-green dress, and her dark, curly hair was fastened in a knot at the back of her head.  
  
"I suppose it's time for the bedding," Jon remarked, a little sourly, rising from his chair.  
  
Cersei quirked a brow. Tipped her gaze up at her husband. "I didn't expect the North to share this appalling custom."  
  
Full lips twitched into a rueful smile. Cersei knew the pain behind it well. Here, after all, was the point of no return. The point at which Jon had to surrender his little brother to the world and let him cross the threshold into manhood. She'd surrendered three children, babes whose mouths she still felt at her breast, as if time hadn't moved at all.  
  
Jon made his way to the high table and joined Meera at Bran's place. Words were exchanged between the brothers. A moment later, Bran flattened his hands on the table, levering himself up off the seat of his chair with great effort. Meera and Jon bent down on either side of the young man. He threw an arm over each of their shoulders in turn.  
  
_He would've stood as tall as Jaime_ , thought Cersei as the long, lean body of Bran Stark was hoisted aloft. Whoops and claps broke out as Jon and Meera carried him out of the hall, a small, eager bedding party trailing after.  
  
Cersei took a final sip of her wine. Her eyes found Jaime's as she rose smoothly from her chair. They held each other's gazes for a lingering span, then Jaime gave a brief, tight nod and Cersei turned to make her retreat.  
  
Ruby eyes lifted to greet Cersei when she walked through the door to her chamber a short time later. The direwolf was perched on the floor in front of the cradle, paws extended in front of him, a silent sphinx from Old Valyria.  
  
"I've just put the little ones down, princess," Marna said with a smile, stepping back from the cradle. The girl's brown eyes shone in the low candlelight, and her sweet, innocent-seeming smile rounded her freckled cheeks into apples. _Robert would've put a bastard in her belly. He liked whores and unspoiled maids. There was no middle ground to him._  
  
"Thank you," Cersei replied, sweeping over to the table. She made a show of rifling through the assorted papers. Fresh inventory counts. Half-written missives. Raven scrolls bearing a black seal and signed Eddison Tollett.  
  
"The prince rides out at first light, doesn't he? S'pose you'll be wanting a bit of peace."  
  
It was taunt and threat wrapped in girlish chatter. The girl had lain out smallclothes that morning. By the morrow, she'd see that Cersei's blood still wasn't upon her, and word would be on its way to the capital that her wilting had come. All of her efforts to control the whispers by playing the wanton fool would be laid waste.  
  
Cersei whirled around, airily declaring, "A husband's needs are a wife's duty."  
  
Marna gave a curtsey. Shuffled out of the room. Cersei turned back around the instant that the door shut. Bracing both of her hands on the tabletop, she screwed her eyes closed, heaved out a long, wearied breath.  
  
_When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die_ , Cersei had told Lord Stark that day in the sunlit courtyard. Now she was sick to the bone of the game. The game that would never end; the game that couldn't be won. Winning had meant dying a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, as everything she held dear was torn from her.  
  
The door creaked open a brief time later. Footsteps padded into the chamber. Cersei opened her eyes and turned. Her husband was leaning over the cradle, one hand balanced on its rim, the other stroking Damon's cheek.  
  
"I don't want to leave," Jon said, a quavering catch in his voice. "But I know I must. _For them_."  
  
Cersei drifted to where Jon stood. Looked down at the slumbering forms of the twins. They lay facing each other. Dark lashes curved against their cheeks. Their lips were parted slightly, pink and perfect, their father's wrought small.  
  
"I forgot how swiftly babes grow," Cersei stated, swallowing roughly. Her throat seemed parched and tight.  
  
"Aye, in no time, we'll be watching our grandchildren sleep," returned Jon.  
  
It was such a tenderly impossible thing to say. Cersei looked at Jon, then, her lips arcing into a fragile smile. Then her hands were lashing forward, grabbing the back of his neck and dragging him into a fierce, hungry kiss. He melted into her, crushing his mouth against hers eagerly, and she caught his lower lip between her teeth, earning a raw groan.  
  
The fine clothes he wore soon gave way to pale skin under her insistent hands. His hands worked to unlace her gown. Once he swept the dress off her shoulders, it slid down her legs in a whispering flutter, pooling around her feet.  
  
They tumbled onto the bed together. Jon buried his face in the crook of Cersei's neck. Mouthed at her pulse-point. She hummed her satisfaction, a low, wanton sound, knitting her fingers in the wild black tangle of his curls.  
  
Soft lips blazed a trail of kisses from the shallow divot at the base of Cersei's throat to the valley between her breasts. Jon's beard teased her skin in delicious counterpoint. She gripped his hair tighter. Tried to coax his head downward. He chuckled, a warm gust across her kiss-moist flesh, then lolled his head to the right and took her nipple in his mouth.  
  
"I am not a patient woman," Cersei warned, breathlessness taking most of the edge out of her tone.  
  
Jon released her teat with a wet _pop_. "You'll be a sorry woman if you don't let me finish."  
  
"You do not have it in your heart to make good on such a threat."  
  
No answer came, only the return of Jon's mouth to Cersei's breast and the light, playful nip of his teeth. A soft little gasp spilled from her lips, and her back bowed up off of the bed, fingers turning to clutching claws in his hair. After a time, Jon took his mouth from her breast, kissed a trail down her belly to the tawny vee between her open legs.  
  
Dark eyes shot up to meet Cersei's gaze. She gently massaged her fingers into Jon's scalp. Then his head dropped. That unearthly tongue cut a searing line between her folds. Swirled sweet circles around her hard little pearl.  
  
_I may never know this pleasure again_. The thought entered Cersei's mind unbidden. She batted it away. Jon's mouth was slowly unmaking her body, pulling the world apart at the seams, buffeting her farther and farther from her cares. She peaked with a raw cry. Wrapped her legs around Jon's head. Pushed his face into her cunt desperately.  
  
Jon sat upright in the aftermath. Heavy pants burst out of him. His beard was dewed with wet smears. Cracking a small, lazy smile, he smoothed his right hand around the curve of her hip and up along the line of her flank.  
  
"On your back, Snow," Cersei ordered, pressing her right hand to the centre of Jon's chest.  
  
Jon obligingly sank back onto the tangled furs. Cersei palmed his belly, then threw a leg over his hips, straddling him. Gentle hands closed around her waist. Held her fast as she lowered herself, taking his cock inside of her in a slow, easy slide. She tarried, sweeping her palms across his sweat-slick shoulders, the sweet fill of him sending sparks up her spine.  
  
"Ah, Gods, _Cersei_ ," Jon grit out when she began to move upon him.  
  
Cersei kept the pace unhurried. Jon rolled his hips up to meet her every time she brought herself down. His hands roamed across her back, gliding down the length of her spine in a sensuous sweep, settling on the swell of her arse.  
  
"I love it when you ride me," Jon told Cersei in that silk-and-iron hush that made her blood quicken.  
  
"This shall not be the last time," Cersei promised, sliding her hands up to Jon's pale throat.  
  
An ocean of time stretched forth as their bodies rocked together. Slow and steady, she rode him, a ship on the waves. Fathomless eyes consumed her. The corded neck strained in her hold. Feral groans vibrated under her fingers.  
  
"I know what you want," Jon breathed at last. "Do it, Cersei. I trust you. _I love you_."  
  
Cersei dug her thumbs into the skin over Jon's windpipe. Quiet pants turned to choked breaths. She upped the force with which she was riding him, and pressed down on his throat harder, until his mouth opened on a rattling gasp.  
  
Release took Jon. Wracked his body like a cataclysm. He jolted beneath Cersei, eyes screwing shut, mouth flapping. She felt the hot pulse of his seed spilling within her. Triumph swelled in her chest and dragged her after him.  
  
Pulling her hands from Jon's throat, Cersei clambered off him and curled beside him on the soft, thick nest of furs. Her hand settled in the middle of his sparsely-haired chest. Felt the hammer of his heart as he heaved in lungfuls of air.  
  
"Seven Hells," Jon said hoarsely once he had regained his breath. "Are my stones still there?"  
  
Cersei swept her hand down Jon's torso. Cupped his sac and gave it a teasing squeeze. "It would seem so."  
  
Jon laughed, a soft, precious sound. Curved a hand around the back of Cersei's neck. Pulled her into a sloppy kiss.  
  
When they parted after a long, breathless moment, Cersei's fingers strayed to Jon's face. Thumb tracing the thin scar that slashed across his left eye, she told him, "I would've ensured the man who left this mark met a suitable fate."  
  
"He was dead when he did it," Jon replied, a hardness entering his thready voice.  
  
"A wight?" Cersei asked, a sudden, chill pang shaking through her gut.  
  
"He was a warg. A man who can enter a beast's mind. I ran him through. He went into his eagle with his last breath. The bird attacked me."  
  
"Such powers are a thing of nursery tales, Snow."  
  
"Aye, they usually are," Jon conceded, small and tired. "But Bran is a warg. He does it at will." Skating his palm along Cersei's flank, he added, "I enter Ghost in dreams sometimes. Since I came back, that is. Taste his kills. Smell _you_." His lips bent into a spun-glass smile. "You'll have Ghost when I'm gone. It'll be like I'm with you in a way."  
  
"I don't want your wolf, Snow," said Cersei, lips curving into a sad smile. "I want my _husband_. My children's father." Reaching out, she brushed an errant, sweat-sodden curl off Jon's brow. "Come back to me. To our family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's clothing in this chapter is meant to be modeled after the [Targaryen fashion worn by Viserys](http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/File:Viserys.jpg) in S1, but made from finer materials, as Viserys's outfit was meant for travelling, while Jon's is meant for court and/or ceremonial occasions.
> 
> Cersei's dress is meant to be [this one](http://ru.gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%B0%D0%B9%D0%BB:%D0%9E%D0%BB%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%A2%D0%B8%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%BB%D0%BB_%D0%B8_%D0%A1%D0%B5%D1%80%D1%81%D0%B5%D1%8F_%D0%9B%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%BD%D0%B8%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B5%D1%80_3x04.jpg) or something similar.
> 
> Bronn revealed that he went beyond the Wall at some point during the drinking game with Tyrion and Shae in S1E9 ("Baelor"). My personal headcanon for him, given his accent, is that he's secretly from the North, the son of a Night's Watch deserter. I know he tells the Dornish soldiers in S5 that he was "whelped and whipped" in Flea Bottom, but it's possible rank-and-file Dornishmen aren't experts at distinguishing a King's Landing accent from a Northern one, or that Bronn was simply lying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earns the tags "Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister," "Sibling Incest," and "Infidelity."

A tiny coo bubbled out of Joanna as Cersei lowered her carefully into Jaime's outstretched arms. The babe's dark eyes peered curiously up from the spoon of his living hand, and her little fist rose, snatching at his red leather coat. His lips parted slightly. The softest of gasps blew out of him. Then his throat worked and his jaw clamped shut.  
  
Cersei's heart seized at the sight. He'd held Joffrey the same way half a lifetime ago. Cradled his little head tenderly. There'd been no sadness in his eyes, then, just naked wonder at the feel of a tiny hand curled about his grown finger. _We made him. That jolly, handsome boy. Terrible as he became, he was our son from his first breath, our secret joy._  
  
Robert had been there for Steffon's birth. Had raged for two days when he entered the world still and red-raw. But, as soon as her time had drawn near with Joffrey, he'd fled from the capital to his ancestral seat for a hunt. It had been Jaime who'd pushed past Pycelle and the gaggle of clucking midwives to kneel at the side of her birthing bed.

"There is little of you in her," Jaime remarked at last, his voice as smooth as surf rushing onto shore.  
  
"I assure you that she came out of me," Cersei replied drolly.  
  
Jaime dragged his gaze up to meet hers. The angular jaw was clenched. The lips pressed into a flat gash. He was holding Joanna like a precious, fragile treasure, but his eyes said what he felt was the weight of another man's child.  
  
Cersei jerked her eyes toward the bed against the far wall. The furs on her husband's side were undisturbed. A raven had come from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea a fortnight ago, but now Jon must be north of the Wall, beyond the world's rim. It had only been a moon, yet it seemed like an eternity since she had last lain eyes on him, last known his warmth.  
  
"We shouldn't be alone together," Cersei stated after a silent span, returning her gaze to her brother.  
  
Jaime's brows knit. He twitched his head to one side slightly. "Is it a crime for a man to visit his dear sister's children?" The words were spoken in a low drawl, bringing out the gravel in his voice, like the sea pulling back to reveal sand. "The Faith has so many rules. Who we can fuck. Where we can shit. It's rather hard to keep track of them all."  
  
Anger washed hot through Cersei's gut. "This isn't about _us_ , Jaime," she hissed, striving to maintain an even volume. It wouldn't do to provoke Joanna into a crying fit while she was sheltered in her uncle's arms for the very first time.  
   
"I don't recall honour keeping me from your marriage bed before," Jaime rejoined, a bitter edge in his tone.  
  
Cersei cracked a wounded smile. Gave a sharp little hum. _Even you treat me like lands to which you hold claim_.  
  
Whirling abruptly with a rustle of her heavy, black skirt, Cersei strode from the cradle to the table. The stone ring on her right middle finger clicked against the wine flask as she lifted it and emptied a helping of Dornish red into a goblet. Summer burst across her tongue as she took a sip. Pleasant heat settled in her belly. A cruel smile curved her lips.  
  
"The fiercest fuck I've yet had from Snow was on this very table," Cersei noted, affecting a mild, conversational air. She punctuated the statement by sweeping the fingers of her left hand across the edge of the table slowly.  
  
Cersei didn't need to witness the flash of hurt in Jaime's eyes to know that her words had found their mark. Silence hung heavy in the air for a golden moment, then boots shuffled against stone, and Joanna released a restless coo. Ghost lifted his huge white head where he lay at Cersei's feet. Cocked his crimson gaze up at her in wordless query.  
  
"Do you know what it was like standing guard every time Robert Baratheon saw fit to insult you?" Jaime finally broached. "One whore was never enough. Sometimes _four_ weren't enough. I should've run the great fat beast through while he was treating them to his tiny cock. I'd already earned the name Kingslayer. And I expect the girls would've been grateful for the service."  
  
Cersei turned. Leant back against the table. "You must fancy yourself the only man to ever keep to one woman."  
  
The apple of Jaime's throat bobbed. His gaze fell to Joanna. One of the buckle-straps of his coat was in her mouth. Something like a smile spread across his face. He carried the babe to the chair. Sat down in it carefully.  
  
"I spoke with him at Winterfell. Your _husband_." Jaime's eyes were fixed on the working of the little toothless mouth. "He didn't know. Hadn't the slightest clue what glories awaited him in the Night's Watch. That ancient brotherhood of thieves and rapers. 'We've defended the kingdoms for eight-thousand years.' Must have been a nasty shock."  
  
"He was a boy," Cersei said, tipping the goblet against her lips and downing another prim swig.  
  
"And now he's a man," Jaime returned. There was bitterness in the scrape of his voice. And buried pain.  
  
Cersei gave a rueful fracture of a smile. Swirled the wine in her goblet. "You were a boy, once, dreaming of knighthood." _Dreaming of carving your own your destiny while I dreamt of giving the man Father said I was to marry little princes_.  
  
Jaime's eyes flicked up to meet Cersei's. She caught a glimpse of him, then, the boy who'd snared her heart. Plunging off a cliff into the sea at Casterly Rock, naked as their nameday, while she practiced her letters with the septa. The sea stretched west. Beyond the edge of the known world. Yet, for all its vastness, her horizons had been close.  
  
"Had I known that _boy_ would ever touch you, let alone put his dragonspawn in you, I'd have ended him there."  
  
"Dragonspawn?" Cersei laughed, but the word knifed into her chest, twisted her heart like a cruel fist. Lifting the goblet, she let another mouthful of wine slide down to warm her belly, said, "I assure you Snow is every bit the wolf."  
  
Jaime scoffed, a soft, arrogant huff. The babe in his arms kicked her stockinged feet. He tilted his gaze down at her. His expression melted as the round black eyes stared up at him, eyebrows drawing together, jaw slackening.  
  
"I don't envy Jon Snow your cunt," Jaime said quietly. "Better a boy with a taste for it than the Flower of Highgarden." Blue eyes pressed shut. "I envy him _this_. A daughter in his arms. The Gods let me know the feeling for an _instant_ before snatching it away."  
  
Cersei swallowed around a hard stone. Raised the goblet and took a shaky sip. Jaime's eyes opened and met hers. The primal need was there, tugging her by the hooks sunk deep into her heart, pulling her to him as it always had.  
  
"They took _our children_ ," Jaime said, a guttural, seething snarl torn from the bottom of his soul.  
  
"I know," replied Cersei. Her throat seemed as if it had closed off. She set her wine down on the table's edge.  
  
"Everything we had. Everything that mattered. What was ours by right. Stolen from us."  
  
Something inside of Cersei crumbled. She moulded her hand around the strong, square angle of her brother's jaw. His warm skin slid sweetly under her caressing fingers, just the faintest, whispering scratch of stubble.  
  
Jaime sat stock-still, anchored by Joanna, but his eyes held Cersei's as she moved her hand to clutch his hair. Bending down, she brought their lips together in a desperate, searching kiss. A liquid tongue plied her lips apart. Pushed into her mouth, bold as ever, wrenching a strangled moan from her throat and turning her fingers to talons.  
  
The direwolf's nose nudged her calf. _Stop it_ , came a voice from the back of her mind. There was a feeble flutter of guilt in her chest, like a bird flying against its cage, but her body was aflame, fire roaring through her blood.  
  
"It was supposed to be us," Jaime told her when at last they parted.  
  
Cersei stroked the hair on the back of Jaime's head. Pressed him closer, so they were brow to brow, breath to breath. "It always will be us," she murmured. "Even when we're apart. You've always been with me. You always shall."  
  
"Do you think of me when Snow's cock is inside you? Bite your lip to keep from crying my name?"  
  
"Is it my body you imagine when your betrothed lets you under her armour?"  
  
Cersei balmed the words with kisses. Pecked down the side of Jaime's face. Mouthed at the hinge of his shaven jaw. Her brother's skin tasted the same as it always had; male and warm and sharp with the salt of earth and sea.  
  
A halting breath gusted across the side of her face. "I laid with only you before Brienne. _Loved_ only you."  
  
Tightness seized Cersei's chest. Her brother's pulse thrummed steadily under lips. He was alive, and here, and _hers_. He had been hers since he entered the world with his little hand clasped fast around her ankle. But that hand was gone, now, and what Cersei longed to feel was the soft rasp of her husband's beard, the spring of his curls.  
  
Cersei straightened, her boot-heel clicking against the flagstones as she took a single, heart-rending step back. Jaime's eyes narrowed. Furrows formed between his brows. The babe in his arms gave an agitated squawk.  
  
"You always said we don't choose whom we love," Cersei said, heart clenching pitifully in her breast.  
  
"Have you told him, then?" countered Jaime in an acid drawl, tipping his chin up. "Or would that make it too _real?_ " Anger-fraught eyes bored into Cersei's. "I'm sure sweet words fly out of those pretty lips with great ease."  
  
Cersei let out a dismissive scoff. Rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Her hand reached reflexively for her wine. The drink was oddly reassuring as it washed into her belly, a warm, heavy weight anchoring her against her anguish.  
  
"He's an honourable lad," Jaime pressed. "What would he say if he knew you've taken my cock, I wonder?"  
  
"He already knows," Cersei snapped, setting her goblet on the edge of the table with a sharp _thunk_. " _Everyone_ knows. All our secrets. All our pain. They whisper and they laugh. There is _nothing_ we can do." Leaning forward, she plucked her daughter out of Jaime's arms, fitted her little head into the sweep of her shoulder. "What's done is done, Jaime. We cannot take back what is lost. We can only endure. Do as we must."  
  
The chair creaked as Jaime slumped back against it. He released a soft, pained sound, half-grunt and half-sigh. Resignation veiled the clarity of his sharp blue gaze like a grey mist blotting out the brilliance of the sun.  
  
An image of Jaime's right hand being forced down rose in Cersei's mind. She wondered if he'd screamed. If he'd wept bitter tears. Maybe it was a crueler act, in its own way, cutting the golden cord that had bound them from their first breaths. Time's relentless march had stretched the thread, thinner and thinner and thinner, until at last it had begun to fray.  
  
"He's good to you," Jaime said after a lengthy silence. "I suppose I ought to be grateful."  
  
Cersei's lips twitched into a taut smile. Her fingers carded through the black coils of hair on Joanna's head. The little legs swam fitfully where they dangled against her chest, and a high, burbling coo issued from the tiny pink mouth.  
  
"What did Bran Stark have to say?" Cersei inquired, forcing the conversation into different territory.  
  
"The boy doesn't want gold," Jaime informed her. "He doesn't want armour for his sons or silks for his daughters. Didn't even want my old sword. Said I could have it back." The thin mouth pulled a grimace. "He asked that I plant a weirwood at Casterly Rock. Nothing more. I gave my word." A nervous breath huffed out. "Perhaps he _is_ mad. He said it was meant to happen. The fall. That it was _fate_."  
  
Cersei thought of the witch tasting her blood. Of the drum of her husband's heart under a mortal scar. Of the fell shadow of a dragon's wings snuffling out the light spilling through the high windows of the Red Keep's throne room. "There are powers we know not," she declared, her voice seeming to come from outside herself.  
  
Jaime gave Cersei a heavy look. He stood and tugged down his coat. "I should return before Brienne rouses."  
  
"Yes, you should," Cersei allowed flatly, wrenching her gaze away from her brother's face.  
  
An ache opened in Cersei's chest at the beat of retreating steps and the soft _thud_ of the door closing. Shutting her eyes, she pressed her nose to the downy curls on Joanna's scalp, breathed in the pure, winter-clean smell of her. _House Stark was the true victor of both wars. It's Lyanna's eyes that shall endure. Not Rhaegar's. Nor mine._  
  
Boots smacked against flagstones as Cersei walked to the cradle. Joanna mewled as she was laid down. Her hand instantly shot forward, tiny, chubby fingers grappling for her twin brother where he lay asleep beside her.  
  
The bed groaned as Cersei laid on her side. She drew her legs up, folding into a curl, her gown pulling against her belly. A lacuna yawned on her right. Not ten years ago, such empty space had been a gift, a glorious reprieve from Robert. Cersei pressed her eyes closed. Swallowed around a dry throat. Drew a skittering breath through her nose.  
  
A great weight dropped onto the bed some time later. Hot animal pants burst against Cersei's face. Even behind the shuttering black of her eyelids, she could feel the fire of the direwolf's strange, red eyes burning into her. Somewhere, a hundred leagues north in the frozen wastes beyond the Wall, her husband lay dreaming and alone.  
  
"Come home," whispered Cersei, blindly stretching out a hand. The wolf gave a low whine as her fingers met his fur. A warm, pulsing thrum tickled across her skin, like the closeness that hung in the air before a thunderstorm. They were bound, she and her husband, a thin filament of heat suspended across the cold gulf that lay between them.


	9. Chapter 9

Cersei punched the gold-threaded needle through the dark blue velvet stretched taut inside her embroidery hoop. _Whomever deemed this to be a lion's look never laid eyes upon one_ , she thought, her lips stretching into a wry smile. The stitched face was a crude, squashed thing, eyes dull and red tongue hanging out like a banner without a breeze.  
  
A winter storm had been howling outside the hall for hours, making the high, lead-lighted windows rattle and creak. Cold bit into Cersei's bones despite her heavy cloak. Her fingers were numb, now, but still she persisted in her craft.  
  
_The Mother's gift is no cause for idleness_ , came a half-remembered voice from the deepest quarter of Cersei's mind. Joanna Lannister, ever-industrious Lady of Casterly Rock, hadn't slowed as she grew heavy with her third child. Nothing but confinement had taken her off her feet. Only the Stranger's pitiless hand had rendered her still.  
  
It had been a fortnight since the arrival of a raven from Jon announcing the success of his mission beyond the Wall. He would return to her within a few days, and then he'd _know_ , and she would have the rare warmth of his smile.  
  
The quiet slap of boots froze Cersei's fingers in mid-stitch. A chair scraped across the floor on the other side of the table. Lifting her eyes, she saw Arya Stark slump down with a ripple of her rough brown cloak, an apple in her hand. Light from the four hearths lining the hall played flame and shadow across the pale mask of her face.  
  
"Always hated needlework," remarked the girl, twitching her head to one side like a curious crow.  
  
Cersei gave an indifferent hum. Returned her gaze to her embroidery. "I fear winter offers few diversions." Finishing her halted stitch, she pivoted her wrist and pushed the needle through the plush, dusk-coloured velvet again.  
  
Teeth tore into fruit-flesh with a great wet _crunch_. The girl masticated a few times, loud, graceless chomps. "Septa Mordane had to drag me to lessons," she declared, the words coming out a garbled slur through her mouthful.  
  
_This odd creature shall always be a dear little sister in Snow's heart_ , Cersei told herself, tamping down her ire. Fingers continuing to stitch the shape of a long, golden paw, she forced her lips to curve into something like a smile. "My septa sat me in a chair for hours at a time," she said with a mild air. "Dullest woman to ever draw breath."  
  
"Did you have to spend hours a day learning your letters? Like your brother?" the girl inquired.  
  
Cersei's hand stilled. Lifting her gaze, she cocked an eyebrow, parrying the question. "No," she answered.  
  
"He talked a lot with Lady Brienne on the journey from Riverrun."  
  
It was a pretty lie, and the girl's hard, closed face betrayed no truths. But Cersei saw the words for the veil they were. _My men weren't mistaken. They knew her from Harrenhal. The little beast somehow endeared herself to Father._  
  
"Jaime has always loved talking," Cersei allowed. "Nothing pleases him so much as his own voice." She held the girl's sharp blue gaze for a moment, then let her eyes fall back to the wooden hoop, resumed her embroidery.  
  
The Stark girl took another crunching bite. Chewed hastily. Swallowed. "Whatever happened to our septa?"  
  
Cersei's mouth thinned. Her hand did not falter in its work. "Your sister hasn't spoken of her time in the capital?"  
  
"Only that you and Joffrey were horrible to her," replied Arya, a cutting edge in her voice.  
  
A wave of sorrow shivered through Cersei's belly at the name. _My son. My precious boy. Bringer of so many horrors._ "Pray the Gods never put a monster in your womb," she said, lowering her sewing to her lap and raising her eyes. "He could do shocking things. _Terrible things._ You'd never escape loving him. That is a mother's curse. No force on earth could ever unroot the love you'll have for your children."  
  
Arya lifted the apple to her mouth. Gnawed off another large chunk. "Don't think I'll be having any babies."  
  
Cersei rose from her chair in a slither of black silk. "Some young lord may yet catch your fancy." Placing the hoop in the basket of sewing things on the table, she slid her arm through the handle, settled it in the crook of her elbow.  
  
"I don't want a _lord_ ," Arya shot back. There was a petulance in her tone. An affronted indignation.  
  
The arch of Cersei's brow cut upward. "You should get some rest. It doesn't do to keep unnatural hours."  
  
Turning with a soft swish of her black, fur-trimmed velvet cloak, Cersei strode from the hall. Her boot-heels cracked against the ancient flagstones like peals of thunder as she wended her way through the silence-choked corridors. All was still and dark, shadowed-haunted doorways and corners licked by the feeble, flickering light of widely-spaced torches.  
  
Silence had attended her every breath for the past moon. It shrouded her when she supped in the Great Hall. In the tomb that was her chamber, it was oft her only bedfellow, filling the cold, empty space her husband once warmed. She thought of his body as her feet carried her forward. The brush of his beard. The winter-hush of his voice.  
  
Jaime was here, within these very walls, and yet he felt untold leagues away. Her brother. Her lover. Half her heart. He hadn't been torn from her as the witch promised. He'd slipped away, a ship sailing westward, over the world's rim.  
She'd kept him at a distance since the night he held Joanna. Taken to embroidering within view of the whole castle.  
  
The bedchamber door thudded shut behind Cersei heavily. Leaning against the old, strong oak, she closed her eyes. Heaved in a bracing breath. Wind was beating against the shuttered window. The air in the room was chill.  
  
Cersei opened her eyes after a long moment. Her gaze rolled to where the direwolf lay on the hearthrug. His great head was resting on his forelegs, eyes closed and ears flat, firelight making his snow-white fur burn a dull orange. The twins were with Marna for the night. They were cutting their first teeth. Yet the direwolf had lingered.  
  
With a short, weary sigh, Cersei stepped away from the door. Set the basket on the small table under the cloak-rack. Lifting her cold-stiff hands, she undid the silver clasp at her throat, then hung her cloak on the rack's endmost peg.  
  
An arm looped around Cersei's waist, swift and sudden as a striking snake, jerking her back against a broad chest. Steel kissed the sliver of throat above the high collar of her gown. The air in her lungs raced out in a skittering gasp. "Not a noise out of you, you _bitch_ ," came a low, gruff voice, sour breath puffing hot against her cheek.  
  
Cersei's gaze dropped to the shears in the basket. She could reach them, perhaps, if not for the knife at her throat. The arm around her waist was a cage, crushing out her breath, making her heart clatter against her ribs.  
  
"They should've lopped off that proud head of yours. Been done with it. Even you wasn't worth this bloody cold."  
  
Cersei closed her eyes. Firmed her lips. Stiffened her limbs. _I am a lion of the Rock. I shall die a lion of the Rock_. She would not give this hired brute the gift of her tears. Would not waste her final breaths on useless pleas. Her mind shot to the Battle of the Blackwater, the weight of sweet, innocent Tommen in her lap and poison in her hand.  
  
The man spun her away from the door. Removed his arm from around her waist. Pulled the knife to the side. "You got two good legs, don't know?" he sneered, pushing her forward with his free hand in the small of her back.  
  
Twin points of crimson flashed at the edge of Cersei's vision. A huge white blur surged at the man. There was the brutal _crunch_ - _crack_ of teeth meeting bone, followed by a wet, squelching tear and a raw scream of pain.  
  
Cersei fell to her knees. Ghost jerked his head. Knife and hand and forearm landed by the chair in a limp curl. The man stood in a wide-eyed stupor, clutching at the bleeding stump, breath coming in harsh, wincing pants. Ghost snarled, red-smeared flews peeling back to reveal a row of vicious teeth, then sprung, slamming the man to the floor. He wailed again. Jaws snapped shut. Tore. The scream ended in a muted gurgle. Limbs twitched. Fell still.  
  
Ghost lifted his head. The fur on his muzzle was stained with blood. He looked at her, the ruby eyes sad, searching. She knew, then, that Jon Snow was inside the wolf, seeing her, smelling the sheen of cold sweat on her skin.  
  
White paws padded toward her. A wet nose nuzzled against her forehead. Ruffled the tufts of her hair with a snort. The forge-stink of blood rose from the dark red pool creeping across the flagstones from the man's corpse.  
  
" _Jon_ ," Cersei whispered, fingers knitting in the scruff at the back of the direwolf's neck.  
  
The door crashed open. Bare feet charged into the room. Steel hit the floor with a ringing clatter an instant later. Ghost moved to let Jaime kneel at Cersei's side. Brienne hovered in the doorway, sword at ready, expression hard. A grey nightdress hung loosely from her broad shoulders, revealing a series of pale, parallel scars on her neck.  
  
"You can put the blade away, love," Jaime drawled. "It won't be a fight worthy of your mettle."  
  
Brienne stepped into the chamber. Her gaze fell upon the dead man. The sword in her hands remained upright. "There may be others," she warned, calm and clear as a cloudless sky. "I'll have Lady Stark raise the alarm."  
  
Jaime's hand found Cersei's cheek as Brienne retreated. The stump of his right forearm settled on her shoulder. He was clad only in his sleep-clothes, a dark-green, rough-spun shirt and breeches the dull grey of rain-slick stone. Dark hairs peeked out where the ties at the collar of his shirt were undone to reveal a slice of flushed skin.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked, low enough to bring out the gravel in his voice. "Did he... _hurt_ you?"  
  
"No," Cersei said, the word a hollow sound rising from the churning pit of her stomach.  
  
"This was Glover's doing." Jaime's jaw clenched. Anger glinted in his eyes. "I should open him from balls to brains."  
  
Cersei clasped the nearest bedpost. Jaime took hold of her other hand. Helped pull her onto her feet.  
  
"It wasn't Glover," Cersei said. The assassin's words echoed in her mind. _He knew I was sentenced to die._ Few held such knowledge beyond herself and her husband. All of them resided in the capital. Sat on the usurper queen's small council.  
  
Jaime's eyes delved into Cersei. The stubble-shadowed jaw flexed. "You cannot acquit a man on instinct."  
  
"Unless he is your poor little brother," Cersei snapped. "Then it seems it is your sacred duty to spirit him from justice." Her nerves were still a tangle of fear and blind fury. She felt like a cornered beast, hackles raised, claws bared.  
  
"Tyrion is innocent of Joffrey's murder," replied Jaime. "You knew it in your heart then. You know it for truth now."  
  
"I need to see my children," Cersei stated tightly, swinging her gaze away from her brother.  
  
Cersei swept out of the chamber. The direwolf loped after her. Quietly, she slipped into the adjacent room, bolted the door. Damon sprung upright in the cradle, big dark eyes round with infant glee, little pink fingers stretching toward her. Warmth quivered through her chest. But there was now a vicious knot of wrath in her gut. An urge to do violence.  
  
Seizing the plain, wooden cup off the nightstand, Cersei slowly tipped a stream of water into Marna's sleeping face. The young nurse started awake with a choking splutter. Smeared her nightdress sleeve across her eyes.  
  
"Get up, you wretched girl!" Cersei hissed. She hurled the empty cup at the wall. Wood met stone with a muted _thud_. Damon let out an alarmed squall. His sister joined him an instant later. Their cries twined into a shrill chorus.  
  
Marna sat up in the bed. Water dripped from her sleep-tangled auburn hair. Her eyes were wide as they met Cersei's. "I'm sorry, princess," she said, her voice squeaky from disuse. "I should've been watching the little ones."  
  
"Don't play the fool with me. I know whom you _truly_ serve." Cersei pincered the girl's round chin between two fingers. Forcing the eyes to remain fixed on her, she seethed, "You shadow my every step. You send whispers south."  
  
"I don't understand," Marna replied. Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. It was the perfect picture of shock.  
  
"My change isn't upon me, you stupid girl. That's the song you've been singing for your perfumed master, isn't it?" Cersei tightened her clutch. Nails bit into soft pale skin. "That I am a fallow field? A mare beyond her foaling years?" A cruel smile spread across Cersei's face. "Well, I have happy news. I am with child. _A Targaryen child_."  
  
Marna's brows slanted upward. Her mouth scrunched into a trembling circle. "Princess, I'm no snitch, I swear."  
  
"Someone conspired to have the prince's child murdered within me tonight," Cersei told the girl in a savage snarl. "That person is a traitor to the crown. You live because I have need of a wet teat. Not because I trust you."  
  
"I'd never do anything to hurt your babes," Marna insisted, a lone tear cutting down her freckled cheek.  
  
_A mummer's show. Nothing more_. Cersei let her hand fall away from the girl's face. Anger smouldered in her belly. "Get out of my sight," she ordered. "Fetch the maester. Bring him here. Pray the prince's child is unharmed."  
  
Marna blinked. Nodded. Scrambling off the bed, she pulled a robe over her nightdress, shoved her feet into slippers. She didn't dare look back as she scurried from the room, shutting the door behind her with a sharp, solid _thud_.  
  
Cersei walked to the cradle. Two pairs of shining black eyes looked up at her. A tremor shook through her heart. Bending down, she pressed a kiss to the downy curls crowning Damon's scalp, cupped Joanna's head with her hand. "My sweet boy," she soothed as her son's cries broke off into soft whimpers. "My darling, beautiful girl."  
  
There was a warm scent clinging to the twins' skin. _The lying cunt's milk_ , Cersei's mind supplied. It mattered little. They were _hers_. Her son, her daughter, and the babe yet unborn. Three children the witch had never seen. Silver children who would dance in the summer snows and whose laughter would fill the air with little steaming puffs.  
  
Tears spilled from Cersei's eyes. Cut hot tracks down her cheekbones. Her heart shuddered in her breast. The twins' crying slowly abated, turning from whimpers to tiny, mewling coos as the fury and terror bled out of her bones. Ghost gave a quiet wuffle from where he rested at the foot of the cradle, a large, fearsome sentinel with blood on his maw.  
  
A low rapping broke the silence a short time later. Cersei swiped her sleeve across her face. Drew herself upright. "You may enter," she instructed, striving to keep her voice hard and even, her spine arrow-straight.  
  
Maester Wolkan shuffled into the room. The links on his chain jangled. "Princess," he greeted, somewhat hesitantly.  
  
Cersei did not turn to face him. She worked to undo the tiny clasps on the back of her black silk gown. Her body had belonged to men since the day the old maester pulled her screaming and red-faced from her mother. A long succession of hands, staying her, groping her, caressing her, and apprising her like a broodmare at a horse fair.  
  
"I have not bled in over two moons," Cersei stated, letting the dress spill from her shoulders to reveal her shift.  
  
Metal clinked as feet shifted. An uneasy silence passed. "Not unusual for a woman of your age," Wolkan finally declared.  
  
Cersei let out a derisive snort. Laid down upon Marna's narrow bed. Her blood-encrusted boots settled atop the furs. "I assure you that I am able to read my body's signs," she said as Wolkan's doughy visage swam into view above her.  
  
The maester touched Cersei's abdomen. Pressed down lightly. Shifted his hand over two finger-spans. Pushed again. "It's not impossible," he conceded. "They say Lady Hardwyn was delivered of a healthy son at seven-and-forty."  
  
"I don't need to know whether a child has taken," replied Cersei. "I need to know whether it will _keep_."  
  
Uncertainty carved a line between Wolkan's brows. A moment later, his fingers prodded her belly again, and his eyes blew wide. "Ah," he said, a soft sound halfway between a gasp and a harrumph. "It would seem your intuitions are correct." Withdrawing his hand, he added, "Don't fret over tonight's trouble. The prince's seed must be uncommonly robust."  
  
Cersei pulled herself upright. Fought the urge to grimace. "' _Uncommonly robust?_ '" she repeated in an acid tone.  
  
"A child is a rare gift at your age," said Wolkan. "I've never attended such a birth in all the years I've worn this chain."  
  
"Have you served many houses in that time, I wonder?" Cersei asked, tilting her head to one side. Even here, clothed only in a thin linen shift and laying on a fur-strewn bed in the cold, brutish North, she knew how to play the queen.  
  
"Before the Starks? Only the Boltons. I saw Domeric Bolton into this world. Fever took him in his sixteenth year."  
  
"What of the child Lord Bolton's second wife was expecting?" Cersei returned, smooth and sharp as flint. Qyburn's little birds had sung few songs of Winterfell after the raven arrived announcing Roose Bolton's sudden death.  
  
The maester's expression twisted into something like fear. He gawped at her for an instant, mouth ajar, brow creased. "Get some sleep, princess," he told her, gaze darting toward the door. "You've had quite a terrible shock."  
  
Cersei's head hit the pillow. Wolkan's chain rattled as he sauntered out the room. She was too tired to confront him. Too tired to tell him that a maester who could not account for a babe under his care would never birth a royal child.  
  
Fanning her fingers over the place Jon Snow's child was seated, Cersei closed her eyes and released a long, weary sigh.


	10. Chapter 10

Red wax oozed up around the seal as Cersei pushed it down. With a long, heavy huff, she set the gold cylinder aside.   Reaching for the pewter goblet beside the inkwell on the table, she downed a large, satisfying mouthful of wine. The clean black sweep of her own hand stood stark against the pale yellow of the narrow strip of parchment.  
  
A long moment passed. Ghost raised his head where he lay at the foot of the chair. Blew out a soft wuffling snort. One day had elapsed since the attempt on her life. Time enough for her fury to cool into steel-hard resolve.  
  
Cersei put down her goblet. Rolled the parchment-strip into a tight scroll. Tied a length of twine around its centre. Taking the quill from the inkwell, she wrote _Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen_ on the outside of the scroll.  
  
_How different is the quill from the sword?_ wondered Cersei, lips carving into a cruel grin as triumph swelled in her gut.  Jon Snow was no stranger to justice. He'd taken a man's head for her. Torn out another's throat while clothed in wolf-flesh. But he was a Stark. He would never see a crone's head parted from her body. No crime could push his honour so far.  
  
Lowering the quill to the blotter, Cersei picked up the small, silver pounce-pot. Dusted the freshly-inscribed name. She set the pot aside and closed the inkwell. Lifted her goblet and let the pleasant heat of wine flood into her belly.  
  
Cersei turned her eye to where the twins lay asleep. A flutter of warmth swept through her breast. Her smile softened. _Such small creatures for fate to turn around_ , she thought, setting the goblet down and rising from her chair.  
  
Boots clicked against flagstones as Cersei strode to the cradle. The twins' faces glowed orange in the low firelight. Lashes arced against their cheeks, dark and long and fine as spider-silk, and their little rose-petal mouths hung open. Cersei gripped the edge of the cradle with her left hand. Skimmed her right index finger around the shell of an ear. They were resting soundly, for the time being, their little bellies full. Marna had been escorted in earlier under guard.  
  
Men's voices murmured outside the door to the chamber: the gruff rumble of the guard, and a softer, familiar one. Cersei's heart leapt. Her breath caught in her throat. Hastily, she withdrew her hands, smoothed down her skirt-front.  
  
The stink of horse and stale sweat assailed Cersei's nose the instant that the door swung open with a groaning creak. She spun in place, three small, precise steps like a maiden's dance, and then her husband's black gaze engulfed her. Half-melted snowflakes spangled his greasy dark hair. The pelt mantling his cloak was a dull matted grey.  
  
"Gods, _Cersei_ ," Jon grit out, breaking the silence. A shivery thrill raced down Cersei's spine at the sound of his voice. His gloved fingers flexed where they were perched on the wolf's head pommel of the sword belted at his waist.  
  
Cersei cracked a soft smile. Flicked a brow upward. "You reek to the highest heaven, Snow."  
  
"Aye, I rode ahead as soon as I woke," returned Jon. "I expect the horse is in sorrier shape than me."  
  
Another aching silence yawned between them. Then, at last, they surged toward each other, and the distance between them closed. Jon's arms circled Cersei's waist. Crushed her against his coat-of-plate. Held her as if it was the world's end.  
  
Cersei smothered Jon's lips in a fierce and ravenous kiss. The raised steel throat-guard of his gorget bit into her chin. Undaunted, she cupped the base of his skull, drew him nearer. Her tongue plunged into the forge-heat of his mouth. He gave a muffled groan, clutching at the small of her back, his fingers slipping across the sleek silk of her gown.  
  
When at last they parted, it was like surfacing from a deep dive, lungs burning and blood singing. Jon pressed his forehead to Cersei's, lashes brushing feather-soft against her closed eyes, the tip of his nose lightly meeting hers. "I've missed you," he told her in a liquid whisper, hands sweeping a lazy path up the length of her back.  
  
Cersei massaged around the knot of hair tied at the back of Jon's head. "Two moons has seemed an eternity."  
  
Jon tightened the girdle of his arms. His fingers quivered against Cersei's back. A soft exhalation tickled her cheek. "You're mine," he declared, barely more than the ghost of a breath. "And I'm yours, Cersei. I'll _always_ be yours."  
  
"I know," Cersei answered simply, letting her hands fall away.  
  
Eyes as dark and depthless as night met Cersei's when Jon pulled back. Trembling hands flew up to bracket her face. "I can still taste his blood in my mouth. In _Ghost's_ mouth. I should've had a guard posted at the door. _I'm sorry_."  
  
Cersei drew a sharp breath. Forced herself to swallow. "He climbed in through the window."  
  
Jon's thumbs rode across the crests of Cersei's cheekbones. His black eyes shone wetly. The full lips pulled flat. "I promised to keep you safe," he said. "I failed. I left you in the company of men who hate you. It was foolish."  
  
"You have a fool's heart, Snow," replied Cersei. "It spelled your end once before. I assure you it will not spell mine." There was no rancour in the words. Merely the steel of certainty. "I shall repay the treason done last night."  
  
"You know who sent the killer?" Jon asked, eyes widening, brows slanting.  
  
"He knew I was sentenced to die. He complained of the cold. It wasn't a Northern lord who set him upon me." Cersei paused. Smiled bitterly. "Many in the south wish me dead, I imagine, but few have the gold to see it done."  
  
Shock settled on Jon's face. His hands dropped away from her face. Clenched at his sides with a leather squeak. "You think this was Tyrion's doing?" he said, anguished disbelief in his tone. "Your own _brother?_ My _friend?_ "  
  
"Ours isn't the only family of means in the Seven Kingdoms, Snow," Cersei replied sharply.  
  
It took a moment for Jon to puzzle out her import. When he did, his expression transmuted into a hard, angry scowl. "You've been wrong before," he snapped, a low, wolfish snarl. "You blamed your brother for a crime he didn't commit." Black eyes blazed with fury. "Olenna Tyrell holds the Reach. We won't last the winter without grain, salt beef, men."  
  
"The sunken cunt murdered _my son_ ," Cersei hissed, wrath surging white-hot through her blood.  
  
"Aye, and you murdered hers!" Jon shot back in a thundering roar.  
  
A shrieking wail erupted from the cradle an instant later. Jon pressed his eyes shut. Blew out a long, skittering breath. Cersei wanted to slap the insolence out of him. To rend red marks into his pale flesh with her fingernails. Fury was a living thing inside her, a vicious beast prowling within the cage of her ribs, choking the breath out of her lungs.  
  
Jon opened his eyes. He looked at Cersei for a span, plaintive, searching. Then he turned and strode to the cradle. Hefting their crying daughter into his arms, he bent his head to sow a tender kiss upon the dark, thick shock of curls. Joanna's fists clamped onto the filthy pelt. The little head fell against Jon's gorget. Cries quieted to wet whimpers.  
  
Cersei's heart stuttered. Her throat felt closed. Spinning with a swish of her dark, heavy skirts, she drifted to the table. The flame-hued stone ring on her middle finger clacked sharply against dull grey pewter as she gripped the goblet. Wine exploded across her tongue. Kissed a warm trail down her gullet. Made a flower of heat bloom in her belly.  
  
"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun," rose a low, crooning warble. It was gentle, and warm, and uncertain. The ghost of a summer long past, when the sea glittered gold below the Rock, and silver hair flowed in the breeze.  
  
Cersei set the goblet on the table. Heaved in a lungful of dry, hearth-warmed air. Her heart strained against her ribs. She turned toward the song. Jon's head was bowed over Joanna's. His bearded chin bobbed with the words. He swayed on his mud-caked riding boots, his eyes shut to the world, voice weaving slumber for the babe in his arms.  
  
Tears welled in Cersei's eyes. Shattered Jon's face into a smear. _You are all that remains of Rhaegar's songs_.  
  
A girl of twelve, she'd been, full of piss and pride. Melara Hetherspoon had crowned her with a wreath of daisies. Named her Jonquil the Golden. Bright and fair as a spring flower. She'd only sneered and said songs were silly lies. But the prince sang that very night, filling her father's hall with sweet music, and Melara had seen her weep.  
  
Cersei's black-booted feet carried her toward her husband. Dark eyes opened as his song tapered into its last line. He gifted her with a smile, then, small and eggshell-fragile. Surrendered Joanna's now-sleeping weight into her hold.  
  
"You will not pollute our daughter's ears with such vile filth again," Cersei chided.  
  
"It's the only song I know," Jon demurred, eyebrows drawing together in a sheepish tangle.  
  
Cersei quirked a brow. A smirk tugged at one corner of her lips. "Did your nursemaid not sing you lullabies?"  
  
There was a sudden pounding on the door. Jon bid the knocker enter. A pair of men burst into the chamber. Suspended between their thick arms was a large brass tub, thin, ghostly tendrils of steam wafting above its edge. They carried it into the middle of the room. Set it on the floor with a solid _thud_. Took twin steps backward.  
  
"A hot bath, as requested," said the taller of the two men. He had a Northern look: dark, long-faced, rugged as a crag. Grey eyes alighted upon Cersei. Darted away almost as swiftly. The stiff set of his shoulders belied an unease.  
  
"Thank you, Darryn," Jon said with a nod of appreciation.  
  
"Alys will be round with the necessaries shortly," replied Darryn, tight as a drawn bowstring.  
  
The men turned and strode from the chamber in unison. Jon screwed his eyes closed once the door was shut. Dragged brown-gloved fingers across his frowning mouth and huffed a great bullish breath out his nostrils.  
  
Cersei lowered Joanna into the cradle. Her hand crawled forward by instinct. Clasped Damon's fist where it lay.  
  
"His name is Darryn Cassel," Jon explained after a brief silence. "His family has served House Stark for generations." A fraught gaze dragged around to meet Cersei's. "He told me the Kingslayer cut down his brother Jory."  
  
"How many men have you slain, Snow?" Cersei asked, lifting her hands to undo the straps of Jon's cloak.  
  
Jon swallowed thickly. Blinked shining black eyes at her. "Too many," he creaked.  
  
A timid knock fluttered at the door. At Jon's command, a willow-thin, plain-faced serving girl scurried into the room. She hastily offloaded the teeming basket of bottles and linens in her hands onto the floor beside the tub. Rushing to where Jon stood, she took the cloak into her hands, said, "I'll have this washed straight away, m'lord."  
  
"You'll have it _burned_ ," Cersei countered in an acid drawl.  
  
The serving girl nodded meekly. Dipped her mousey head in lieu of a curtsey. Hastened from the chamber.  
  
Silence followed the hollow _thud_ of the door swinging closed. Cersei set to work undoing the buckles on Jon's gorget. She eased the halves from his shoulders a moment later. Placed them carefully on the trunk beside the cradle.  
  
"You cannot permit servants to forget your station," Cersei advised as she began unfastening the coat-of-plate.  
  
"I've known Alys and Darryn all my life," Jon replied, a little defensively. "They survived the Ironborn and the Boltons." A weary sigh shuddered out from between plush lips. "I'll always be Lord Stark's bastard son in their eyes."  
  
"Joanna shall sit the Iron Throne in time. You are her royal father, Snow. You must act the prince for her sake."  
  
"I don't know how," Jon confessed, soft and halting.  
  
"You will," Cersei answered simply.  
  
Silently, she stripped the layers of leather and wool from her husband, until at last the pale, lean body was laid bare. Her eyes feasted upon the sight of him. Prowled along the fine, scar-strewn torso to the dark, wild thatch at his loins.  
  
Coal-dark eyes seared into Cersei for a weighted moment. Then the apple of Jon's long white throat quivered. Tearing his gaze away, he padded barefoot to the brass tub, lowered himself into it with a quiet _splash_.  
  
Cersei dragged the chair from the table to the head the tub. She sat down, hiking her skirts, spreading her legs wide. Jon tipped his head back toward her. Her fingers fanned across his sternum. Swept up the column of his neck.  
  
"I can feel the warmth seeping into my bones," Jon said in a frayed-silk murmur.  
  
"Close your eyes," Cersei commanded, a low, throaty purr.  
  
Long black lashes fluttered down to meet white cheeks. Cersei flicked the pads of her thumbs across Jon's throat. Her hands retreated an instant later. Untied the thin leather cord fixing his hair in a knot. Brushed the curls out. Then, rolling the sleeves of her gown up to her elbows, she bent to the side, took a wooden cup from the basket.  
  
A sighing gasp spilled from Jon's lips as the first cupful sluiced down over his head. Cersei watched the water run down the broad brow in glistening rills, catching like morning dew in the short black beard, trickling off nose and chin. She dipped the cup into the bath once more. Poured a second cupful onto Jon's head, and another, and another.  
  
When his hair had been thoroughly wetted, so that it clung to his face in limp skeins, she set down the cup. Plucked a bottle from the basket. Flicked open the cork stopper. Drizzled the oily concoction over dripping curls.  
  
"Lavender?" Jon balked at the burst of fragrance. "Tormund won't let me hear the end of it!"  
  
"Your party is at least a day's ride away," rejoined Cersei. "I don't plan for you to leave our bed in that time."  
  
Cersei lanced her fingers into the soggy snarl of Jon's hair. Kneaded the pads of them across the underlying scalp. Jon's lips fell open slightly. A long sigh gusted out of him. The muscled arms perched on the tub's rim went slack. Slowly, surely, she worked the oil into a froth. Jon melted into her touch like putty, head tilting back, breath slowing.  
  
"Never dreamed such luxury was kept within these walls," Jon said after a span.  
  
"I expect it was reserved for southern guests who cannot abide a lack of southern kindnesses."  
  
"Did the king enjoy these southern kindnesses during your stay?"  
  
"Robert?" Cersei laughed bitterly. "No, Robert's vices were wine, food, and whores, not perfumes and finery."  
  
Jon released a soft breath. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted his legs. "I'm your husband now." The wet head craned back. Eyes peeled open to meet hers. "I swore an oath. I love you. I'll _never_ dishonour you."  
  
Warmth washed through Cersei. Her palms glided down the scarred chest. A steady beat tupped under her fingertips. Here was Jon Snow's impossible heart, pulsing with life and love, pumping beyond the cold, killing kiss of steel.  
  
Cersei thought of Jaime's mouth upon hers. Bold and wicked and hers alone. Her world had been bounded by him. She hadn't known it was possible to want anything other than Jaime and the three golden children he gave her. There had been no future for her after Tommen's death. Not until Jon had seeded one within her womb.  
  
"I need you to close your eyes again," Cersei said, a tiny catch in her voice.  
  
Jon's gaze held Cersei's for an instant. Then his eyes slipped shut. She reached for the cup. Rinsed his hair clean. Once she was done, she set the cup at the base of the tub, took a cake of soap and a rag from the basket.  
  
"Edd asked about you," Jon remarked when the soapy rag swept across his shoulders a moment later.  
  
A bemused hum rose from Cersei's throat. "I am sure you had many happy tales of matrimony."  
  
"Aye, he wanted to know what it's like, having a wife." Shivers beset Jon as Cersei dragged the cloth down his spine. "It wasn't as bad as the time Sam asked what it's like to be with a girl. It's... _more_. I don't know. I'm no poet."  
  
"No," Cersei returned, giving the word a droll flatness. "Raise your arms, Snow."  
  
Jon obligingly lifted his arms, bending them at the elbows, locking his hands at the back of his head. Cersei guided the washcloth from the black tuft of hair in the crook of his right underarm down the lean line of his flank.  
  
"When we make love, it's like I'm more than myself," Jon said. "I become you. You become me. Just for a little bit." The rag swept down his left flank. "We made Joanna and Damon. They're a part of us, together, _always_."  
  
Cersei waited for Jon's arms to drop. Drew a steadying breath. _A little piece of him flowers within me as he speaks_. The words rose within her, a wave cresting before breaking on the shore, but her tongue seemed suddenly too thick. _Let me have his warmth tonight. Let me have his smile tomorrow. Let me have all there is for the taking_.  
  
Brushing the damp, tangled locks from the nape of Jon's neck, Cersei bent her head and pressed a kiss to his skin. He tasted clean and warm. "You've kept me wanting for two moons, Snow. Finish washing. Come to bed."  
  
A loose-fingered grip accepted the washcloth from Cersei's hand. The chair complained faintly as she got to her feet. Black boots carried her to her trunk. Her arms strained around to her back. Worked open the row of clasps on her gown. It fell away a moment later, a whisper of midnight silk slipping down her legs, puddling at her ankles on the floor.  
  
The sloshing in the tub stopped when Cersei pulled off her shift. She spun, naked as her nameday, eyebrow cocked. Jon's gaze roamed over her body. There was the unmistakable shadow of hunger in his eyes. His throat rippled.  
  
"Do you plan on enjoying a quick fumble in the bath like a peach-chinned boy?" Cersei asked archly.  
  
The look on Jon's face soured. Satisfaction unfurled in Cersei's gut. She tarried a beat, then turned, strode to the bed.  Her weight dipped the mattress slightly as she perched upon the edge of it and planted her bare feet on the floor.  
  
Jon sprung out of the tub with a _splash_. Bent to retrieve a towel from the basket. His back remained turned to Cersei. Beads of water glistened on his pale skin. He dried himself, slowly and thoroughly, his shoulder muscles flexing. When he wheeled to face her, the towel was wrapped around his narrow hips, but its front was tented tellingly.  
  
He came to stand before her after a moment. Her fingers teased along the elegant angles of his hipbones. Tilting a wicked smile up at him, she hooked her fingers under the towel's edge, tugged downwards with a rough jerk.  
  
"I longed for you every night," Jon confessed as the towel fell to reveal the proud stand of his manhood.  
  
Cersei stroked a muscled thigh. Palmed the soft weight of the sac. "Every man longs for a cunt to warm his cock."  
  
Jon groaned as Cersei lightly rolled his balls. Clapped a hand onto her shoulder. "I wanted _you_. All of you. My _wife_." His voice was a low thrumming wind. "More than once I woke from a warg-dream, alone, your smell in my blood."  
  
"It would seem that great white beast lives in your skin as oft as you live in his."  
  
"Aye, I've always been a wolf," Jon said with a chuckle. He bent, then, stealing Cersei's lips in a hard, hungry kiss. Strong arms wound around her shoulders, and she gripped the cheeks of his arse, nails biting into the yielding flesh.  
  
After a breathless infinity, Jon released Cersei's mouth to pepper soft, sloppy kisses down the long arc of her neck. He cupped her breasts in his palms. Gently squeezed their fullness. Flicked his thumbs across the pebbled nipples. Cersei gasped, clutching at the damp, tangled curls. Jon took a teat into his mouth. Sucked and nipped lightly.  
  
"Kneel for me," Cersei ordered, the sweet sharp thrill of dominion charging through her blood.  
  
Lips trailed fire down the centre of Cersei's belly. She wondered, briefly, if Jon could feel the slight swell of their child. Heat sparked through her veins. Expanded inside the hollow of her ribs. Made her galloping heart flutter.  
  
Jon sank to his knees like a stone into water. He tilted a glance up at her. Then his head dipped between her legs. The bristles of his beard whispered across her skin as he mouthed wet kisses against her right inner thigh.  
  
"Get your mouth on me, Snow," Cersei hissed. "I've waited long enough. Don't you _dare_ deny me."  
  
A breathy laugh blew across her skin. "I could never deny you this," Jon intoned, a warm, rumbling hush. Grasping Cersei's hips to stay her, he delved into the vee of her thighs, his tongue slicing molten between her desire-slick folds. He lapped delightful little whorls around her aching pearl. Sent sweet shocks of pleasure chasing up her spine.  
  
It was all Cersei could do not to scream her ecstasy when Jon's tongue speared inside of her. Fingers gripping his wet curls as fast as a drowning woman, she pushed his face into the desperate, rhythmic lurch of her hips.  
  
The tongue retreated after a time. Two fingers slipped within Cersei in its place. Jon moved them in and out steadily. He growled into her cunt, a feral, strangled sound. Laved circles around her pearl with renewed vigour.  
  
Cersei roared as release took her body. She rode the delicious rush, fingers fisting in Jon's hair, cleaving him to her. His tongue continued working its sweet torture throughout. Wrung every last shiver of pleasure from her flesh.  
  
"The Gods granted a rare mercy when they fashioned your mouth," Cersei said when Jon pulled back.  
  
Jon smiled, a small, sheepish curl. Cocked his impossibly dark gaze up at her. "A man should please his wife."  
  
"Most husbands are not in the habit of sparing their wives' wishes so much as half a thought."  
  
"I know," Jon responded. Rising from his knees, he climbed onto the mattress beside Cersei, the bedframe creaking. He caught her face between his hands. Swiped his thumbs across her cheeks. The smile gracing his lips widened.  
  
Cersei bore Jon down onto the furs with a hand on his chest. She smoothed her palm across the vicious scars slowly. "It's a pity the men who did this are dead," she remarked. "The noose was far too clean an end for them."  
  
"You've too great a love for revenge," replied Jon, looking up at her through the splay of his lashes.  
  
"I believe in giving men their due," Cersei said. Her fingers skated along the trail of fur leading down from Jon's navel. She took his cock in hand. Teased the foreskin over the crown with a deft twist. A tremor quaked through his limbs. He was a marvel, this man who came unstrung at her simple touch, magic and beauty wrought into flesh.  
  
"Oh," Jon gasped as she began to stroke him, eyelids slipping shut, fingers tensing in the furs.  
  
"You have a pretty cock," Cersei told Jon in a dark tone. "Every part of you is lovely. And every part of you is _mine_." She bent her back, then, and took his cock into her mouth. The fullness of it sat warm against her tongue.  
  
"Oh, _Cersei_ ," Jon groaned, utterly wrecked. There was a rustle as his hand lifted. Then another as it dropped.  
  
A hundred nights, she'd done this to Robert, and every time it had been a loathsome duty to be borne. He'd always been deep into his cups when he stumbled into her bed, too far gone to know a hot, wet mouth from a slick cunt.  
  
Cersei worked Jon with slow precision. Swirled her tongue around the tip of his cock. Flicked it over the weeping slit. An anguished groan rung in her ears. Slender hips shuddered beneath her. Clutching fingers tore at the furs.  
  
After a time, Cersei let the hard pulsing length slide down her throat, stroking her hand up in tandem. Jon's restraint finally cracked, and his fingers wove into the silken mop of her hair, his hips twitching up to meet her bobbing head. He fucked into her mouth in little guilty jerks. Stroked her hair gently, low, ragged moans spilling from his lips.  
  
"Ah, Gods, I'm _close_ ," Jon growled in warning a moment later. His hips stilled on a long, tortured groan. The bitter spray of his seed washed across Cersei's tongue. She held the member in her mouth. Felt it shudder and jump as it spent its issue, as Jon's body shook with the force of his crisis, and his groan dragged into a cry.  
  
"Seven Hells," Jon rasped when he'd gathered his breath.  
  
Cersei stretched out beside her husband. Her lips arced into a gloating smile. "You say that without fail."  
  
"Aye," Jon conceded softly. He turned onto his side. Let his hand run lazily down Cersei's belly.  
  
"You might consider profaning your own faith for a change," Cersei suggested wryly.  
  
"'Oh, great, black void?'" Jon chuckled, a quiet, warm husk of a sound. "Doesn't have quite the same ring." He rolled on top of Cersei, propping himself up by both hands, settling between the cradle of her splayed thighs.  
  
Cersei gasped at the feel of an eager cock nudging apart her folds. "Your youth is a boon, Snow."  
  
"It wasn't like this before the Red Woman brought me back," Jon countered waspishly.  
  
There was but an instant to apprehend his meaning, then he was pressing inside of her in a slow, agonizing ingress. He let his upper body fall on top of her, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, and she hugged her legs around his waist. When his hips finally slotted against hers, snug and sound as a carpenter's joint, she hummed her satisfaction.  
  
"You think your virility is the result of witchcraft?" Cersei broached as Jon began an easy rhythm.  
  
A thready exhalation gusted across the skin below Cersei's ear. "I like fucking my wife. No great mystery there."  
  
Cersei hummed again. Skimming her palms down the pale, sweaty curve of Jon's back, she gripped his arse cheeks. Her hips swayed up off the furs to meet his gentle thrusts. Every slide opened a blossom of pleasure within her. It had been too long since she last knew the glory of him filling her, the sweet, soul-deep wholeness of their joining.  
  
Jon upped his tempo. An animal growl tore from his throat. Cersei moaned, riding the hard, furious snap of his hips. They were lost to the undertow of their passion. He was crashing against her, now, deep, brutal plunges into her core. She peaked, and he broke after her, shuddering out her name as his seed spilled inside of her in a warm flush.  
  
As she lay under him afterward, his chest rising into the fall of her own, a contentment settled within her bones. Whatever the morrow brought, and whatever horrors came with the deepening snows, this small peace was hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the [Game of Thrones Wiki](http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/House_Cassel), in the books Martyn Cassel, brother to master-at-arms Rodrik, had four sons, of whom only Jory lived to adulthood (until meeting his own untimely demise in the skirmish with the Lannister guards). The Darryn Cassel in this chapter is my own invention, since there's nothing, to the best of my recollection, that establishes that all of Jory's brothers are dead in the TV continuity, or that Martyn couldn't have had more than four sons.
> 
> I actually Googled medieval hair hygiene practices before deciding to just invent whatever I felt best served the scene.


	11. Chapter 11

Ice-blue eyes stared out from sunken pits in a face as grey and pitted as salt-gnawed stone. The creature jerked, its mouldering limbs straining against the chains binding it to the rack with the dry, cracking _creak_ of bone meeting bone. Black teeth clacked against each other as the half-fleshless jaw gnashed and snapped in unending blind fury.  
  
Breath crystallized in front of Cersei in steaming puffs. The air in the dungeon chamber was close and bitterly cold. Colder than winter's grip, which seemed to tighten with every day, smothering the hills in a shroud of white.  
  
The nightmare-image of Myrcella's face beset by rot rose from the dark place it dwelled in Cersei's mind. This time, however, she saw green eyes turned blue, and faded gold hair clinging to a papery scalp in stringy clumps. _Death cannot take you again, my sweet girl_ , she thought, struggling to shake the cold clutch of dread from her heart. Myrcella's remains had burnt with the Sept of Baelor. So had Joffrey's. They were ashes on the wind. It was a grim comfort.  
  
Cersei swallowed. _The twins may still be taken_. She flattened a hand on her belly. _You might never see the light day_. There was no denying the truth of Jon Snow's words now. The madness of which he had long warned was real.  
  
"You shouldn't linger down here," came a gentle voice from behind her.  
  
"I needed to see," Cersei said, turning her eyes toward her husband. He stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. The feeble torchlight made his pale face blaze orange above the thick grey pelt at the collar of his new cloak.  
  
"It's the Queen who needs to see," Jon replied. "We need her armies and dragons. We're running out of time."  
  
Gathering the dark, heavy fabric of her skirt in her fingers, Cersei swept up the steps to join Jon on the landing. "She doesn't need to see, Snow," she told him. "Jaime has Tyrion's ear. Show _him_. You shall have your men."  
  
"What good would it do?" Jon asked, brows knitting. "There's no love for Tyrion in your family."  
  
"That is false. You'd have known so if you'd thought to seek my counsel. A raven would already be on the wing."  
  
Jon's jaw flexed slightly. His eyes darted away to focus on the twisting wight. A slow exhalation misted in the frigid air. "Aye, you're right," he said, gaze meeting hers a moment later. "I value your counsel. I should've sought it."  
  
"Jaime has always had a tender heart where Tyrion is concerned," Cersei replied, a bitter edge in her tone.  
  
Another cloud billowed out of Jon's mouth. He reached up and cupped her cheeks. Warmth bled through his gloves. "You're my wife. The mother of my children. I won't let an attempt on your life stand. I want justice as much as you." An uneasy beat passed as he drew a breath. "We'll speak to Tyrion privately when the Queen's retinue arrives."  
  
"That may be moons from now," Cersei snapped. "Olenna Tyrell will have fled to the Free Cities by then."  
  
"I saw _him_ again," Jon confessed, fear choking his voice to a whisper. Black eyes shone under furrowed brows. "We made landfall just south of Hardhome. They ambushed us. Good men died. He made their corpses rise." Leather-clad thumbs swept across Cersei's cheeks. "The Wall will fall. Bran has seen it. It's only a matter of when."  
  
"The Wall has stood for thousands of years," Cersei stated, her voice ringing hollow in her ears.  
  
"Come," Jon said simply, letting his hands slip away from her face.  
  
Cersei followed her husband down the narrow corridor, up a second flight of stairs, and out into the grey glare of day. He told the guard to send someone to fetch Jaime. The man gave a curt nod. Bolted the heavy ironwood door.  
  
Fresh snow was piled waist-high on either side of the path cleared between the castle and the outer wall of the keep. Jon walked at a brisk clip. Cersei followed two paces behind. The clang of hammer meeting anvil grew louder. When they reached the courtyard, the smith was working a long, red-hot tongue of steel into the crude form of a blade.  
  
A reedy stablehand brushing down a horse slung a sour look at Cersei when she swept past him. Back straight and head high, she let his scorn break around her as if it were simply water flowing around a great, immovable stone. Winterfell would never be home to her. Lions were not welcome within its walls. But a lion she would ever be.  
  
They entered the castle. Cersei's footfalls clapped against ancient stone. Mingled with the quiet thump of Jon's stride. Daylight was slanting in wan silver shafts through the high snow-encrusted windows lining the silent corridors.  
  
The guard standing outside the door to their chamber was a slip of a youth. He couldn't be more than seven-and-ten. His arms seemed sturdy enough, but there was a softness to his face, and only a few copper wisps clung to his chin. "My prince," he greeted, bowing his head at Jon's approach. He stepped aside hastily to grant them entrance.  
  
Alys sprung from where she was seated beside the cradle when Jon and Cersei filed into the chamber. Gathering her mending work, she dipped at the knees in a quick, clumsy attempt at a curtsey, then shuffled out through the door. Ghost lifted his head from his forelegs where he lay at the cradle's base. Red eyes opened. White ears twitched.  
  
"One beardless boy? This is to be your Kingsguard?" Cersei hissed. Her lips slashed into a grim mockery of a smile. "I would have expected your sister's time in the Red Keep to have taught her the wisdom of hiding her hatred."  
  
Jon's face twisted into a grimace. The slice of neck above the throat-guard of his gorget shuddered. He held Cersei's gaze for a span, the dragonglass of his eyes glinting in the grey light from the window, gloved hands stiff at his sides. "Aye, Sansa has no love for you," he said at last. "But she would _never_ do anything to harm my children."  
  
Cersei peeled off her black gloves. Tossed them on the low table under the cloak-rack. Let the silence drag out.  
  
After a moment, Jon raised his hands to her throat and unlatched the small, silver clasp fastening her dark cloak. "The North lost many of its best fighting men in the war," he told her, sweeping the cloak off of her shoulders. Hanging it on a peg behind her, he added, "Boys are much of what's left to us. I was a sworn brother at sixteen."  
  
The knot of anger in Cersei's chest loosened. Sucking in a deep, bracing breath, she lifted her hands to Jon's chest. "You were a miserable pup sulking at the low table," she said, warmth swimming below the sharpness of the words. Her fingers deftly undid his cloak-straps. "I knew you for the bastard from the way Lady Stark's eyes fled from you."  
  
"I'd be your husband one day, you just didn't know it," Jon replied, his voice sinking to a silken hush.  
  
Cersei arched a brow. A wicked smirk played at her lips. "Can you imagine if I'd lured you from the feast that night?" She tugged on the cloak. It spilled into her hands in a black ripple. "Plucked your flower under your lord father's nose?"  
  
"You'd have only got a mess on your hand," Jon jested, soft and slightly breathless.  
  
Silence simmered between them. Light gleamed in Jon's fathomless black eyes. Heat coiled low in Cersei's belly. Then he turned from her, striding toward the table in the corner, and she hung his cloak before joining him.  
  
A bundle of sackcloth and twine lay at the table's centre. Jon swept the tangled folds apart to reveal its contents. Swords. Twin swords. One a finger's width narrower and a hand-and-a-half shorter than its bastard brother.  
  
"Early nameday gifts for the twins from their uncle," Jon explained, swinging a gentle gaze around to look at Cersei. "They're the first Valyrian swords forged in three centuries. Sam found the art buried in a scroll at the Citadel."  
  
Cersei ran her fingers along the crossguard of the longsword. The metal was cool to her touch. Good plain steel, clean and Northern in design, the only ornamentation a tiny dragon, wolf, and lion circling a ruby set in the pommel. _My daughter shall wield this blade_. Cersei's heart leapt in her chest. Her lips twitched into a small smile.  
  
"Tyrion sent a greatsword to replace Father's as well. The Lannister words are true. You do pay your debts."  
  
"Our words are 'Hear Me Roar,' Snow," Cersei corrected. There was no wry edge in her tone. She spoke as if by rote. Her mind had drifted to the capital, and Mycrella's red, weeping face growing smaller as the boat carried her away.  
  
Cersei thought of Myrcella's lion pendant. The one the vipers had sent in threat. It had been around Myrcella's throat when they finally made good on their hissing and she'd taken her last choking breaths in her father's arms. Now it was stashed in the golden casket on the nightstand. The little sister Myrcella had wished for would wear it in time.  
  
Jon placed a hand over Cersei's where it rested on the hilt of the sword. "You know I'll train them both."  
  
_Tell him_ , urged a voice from deep within Cersei. She clasped Jon's hand, lifting it off the table, pressing it to her belly. "No, Jon Snow, you shall train all _three_ ," she said, flicking her right eyebrow up fondly as she held his gaze.  
  
Dark eyes rounded. Plush lips fell open. A tiny gasp shivered out. Cersei saw wonder and joy on her husband's face. It hung between them, a perfect, golden moment. Then the filament broke. Jon clenched his jaw. Jerked his hand back. His gaze dropped away, and he clamped his hand around the table's edge, swiped the other across his mouth.  
  
Cersei folded her hands in front of her. Anger stabbed through her gut. Seized her heart like a pitiless fist.  
  
Jon dragged wet eyes up to meet Cersei's after a tiny eternity. "Is it _Jaime's?_ " he forced out, a snarl of pain and fury. His brow crumpled. A sobbing breath punched out of him. Leather squeaked as he clutched the table harder.  
  
"You think he got this child on me?" Cersei rejoined. They were measured words. Deadly words.  
  
"I saw you with him. _Kissing_ him. Through Ghost's eyes. I suppose it's a mercy you didn't lie with him in our bed."  
  
"I didn't fuck Jaime while you were gone," Cersei stated, rage burning in her veins.  
  
Jon withdrew the hand braced on the table. Cersei wondered, for a terrible, fleeting instant, if he meant to strike her. But he only pressed his eyes shut. Took a slow hissing gulp of air. Then he opened his eyes and turned. Leaning down, he grabbed his sword from where it stood against the wall beside the old, beaten shield with its weirwood sigil. Stomped toward the door. Pulled his black cloak down from its peg. Hastily wrapped it around his shoulders.  
  
Silence flooded into the room when the door swung closed. All that Cersei could hear was the wild clatter of her heart.  Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. She propped her hands on the edge of the table. Counted out her breaths.  _It all turns to shit in the end. Every sweetness turns sour. Every kindness is snatched away. The Gods have no mercy_.  
  
Reaching across the swords, Cersei took the wine flask from its tray, poured a helping of Dornish red into the goblet. Wine was as reliable as the dawn. It was summer in the heart of winter. Comfort in the very jaws of despair.  
  
_Seven moons_ , Cersei told herself, downing a large swig. In that time, a beautiful, black-haired babe would be born. Her husband would know her words for truth. She would have justice, then, if winter did not swallow the world. If a younger, more beautiful queen did not come to claim all she held dear, as the witch had promised a lifetime ago.  
  
Soft padding steps slunk toward her. The bulk of the direwolf dropped at her feet. A snort rustled the hem of her gown. There was a solace in the beast's presence. Yet she knew her husband wasn't in him. That magic was lost to her.

 

* * *

  
  
Candlelight danced gold-bright across the lion's head embossed upon the medallion in the spoon of Cersei's palm. Huffing out a slow, heavy sigh, she curled her hand into a fist. The chain quivered where it dangled between her fingers. _My beautiful girl_ , she thought. The shoeless wretch hadn't let her into the Great Sept to mourn. She'd never know the face of the woman her daughter had become.  
  
Night had fallen hours ago. Wind groaned against the shuttered window. The candles had burned down to stubs. Marna had been escorted in to nurse the twins twice. Alys had brought mutton stew on a wooden tray.  
  
The golden casket lay upon the pristine furs with its lid open. Cersei carefully set the necklace down into its bottom. Sand-coins, cats scrawled on parchment, a rough-stitched stag. They were sentimental trinkets. A mother's flotsam. She shut the lid of the casket with a solid _thud_. Carried it back to the nightstand. Placed it beside the candlestick.  
  
Cersei drifted to the table. Ghost tipped his red eyes up at her from his place on the floor. Gave a soft rumbling whine. "I shall drink as much as it pleases me," she told the creature, emptying the last of the wine into her goblet.  
  
Summer-heat seared into her belly a moment later. Lowering the goblet, she twitched her wrist, a tiny, idle slosh. _Winter has become my gaoler_ , she mused. There'd never been greater cause to warm herself with drink.  
  
The door creaked open abruptly. Cersei did not turn her gaze in greeting. There was the rustle of a cloak being hung. Then the slow trod of boots toward the far trunk. Leather scraped and squeaked. Metal clanked as it met wood.  
  
Cersei wheeled around at last, wine clutched firmly in her long, ringed fingers. Jon was sat on the edge of the bed. His back faced her. The broad shoulders were slumped. Gorget and coat-of-plate and woollen tunic lay on the trunk. A sheen of sweat glistened on the pale half-moon of skin exposed at the collar of his yellowed linen undershirt.  
  
Something elemental tugged at Cersei's heart. Made her yearn to feel Jon's warmth. To shelter him within her arms. But he stayed as still and silent as a sept, until at last he released a soft sigh, and bent to remove his boots.  
  
Cersei raised the goblet to her lips and drained a large swig of wine. She glided to the cradle, slow, clacking steps. The twins were soundly asleep. Their little hands were clasped together. Dark lashes kissed their cheeks.  
  
"I thought I could be enough," came a small, forlorn voice. "That you might find happiness with me."  
  
A pang of guilt spiked through Cersei's gut. Her fingers flexed around the goblet. She turned and met Jon's eyes. They were dark as a starless night. Tears clung in the corners of them. Glittered in the low light from the hearth.  
  
"I went to the godswood to clear my head." A single tear slipped down Jon's cheek. His long white throat trembled. "I prayed to Father for strength. I asked him how he did it. How he bore the shame of a bastard under his roof all those years. He took me in as his own. He was a man of honour, and it was _right_. I'm no son of his if I won't do the same."  
  
Cersei swallowed around the knot in her throat. Tightened her hold on the goblet. Her chest felt suddenly too small. There was an ocean of things she wanted to say, bright and boundless and deep, stretching beyond the known world. _Love no one but your children_ , she'd told Sansa Stark. Words that had made her feel stronger; words that had left her alone on a bitter throne.  
  
"What you did pains my heart," Jon confessed. "I _trusted_ you, Cersei. But it's my hurt to bear. Not the babe's."  
  
"I love you, you blind  _fool_ ," Cersei hissed, the words flying out unbidden. She slammed the wine down on Alys's chair. Taking two sure, swift steps forward, she snatched Jon's right hand from where it sat on his lap, brought it to her belly. "I kissed Jaime in an hour of weakness. Nothing more. It's _your_ child that grows within me, Snow. I have told many lies in my life. This isn't one of them."  
  
Jon's eyes went round. A hitching breath shook out of him. His left hand soared up to join the right on her abdomen. He mapped the tiny swell of the child with his fingers, carving shallow tracks in the dark, supple silk of her dress. "Another little one," he said, wonder wringing his voice into a hush. Black eyes slid shut on a slow exhalation.  
  
"Yes," replied Cersei simply. Her hands arced around the base of Jon's neck. Pulled his brow against her chest.  
  
Thick arms girded Cersei's waist. Fingers splayed open in the small of her back. "Our love made this child."  
  
He sounded so impossibly naive. So impossibly _young_. And yet he'd lived enough in his short years for ten men. She'd been a naive, hopeful thing once, heart aflutter as Robert Baratheon draped his cloak around her shoulders. _Before he called me by a corpse's name. Before we lost our son. Before he took the glory and left me the mess_.  
  
An image of silver hair in rushing water rose in her mind. Green earth tilled by hoofbeats and watered by men's blood. He was worth it, every scream and every last, ratting breath, this man whose heart loved and loved without breaking.  
  
"You have ruined me, Jon Snow," Cersei declared. "I would burn cities to ash for the joy you have given me."  
  
Jon pulled back to look up at her. Made a small, choked sound, half-laugh and half-sob. "You're a frightening woman."  
  
"I am your _wife_ ," Cersei returned, stroking her hands up to rest under the loose knot of his hair.  
  
"Aye," Jon said, mild as a summer snowfall. "My beautiful, terrible, _pregnant_ wife."  
  
They settled together atop the furs. Jon fitted into the curve of Cersei's spine. Looped his arms around her middle. Eyes slipping closed, she let herself melt into the strange symmetry of his lean, young body abutting her own.  
  
"When do you think the babe took within you?" asked Jon softly, spreading his hands flat on Cersei's belly.  
  
"That evening you spent your stamina playing at swords with your dear little sister," Cersei answered.  
  
A soft laugh swept across the back of Cersei's neck. "You had vigour enough for the both of us."  
  
Cersei gave a muted hum. Clasped one of Jon's hands where it rested. There was an uncertainty to his touch. Silence stretched between them. Jon's arms cleaved her to him. His breath brushed against her skin in warm gusts. She let herself bask in the nearness of him. Let him wash over her, a slow, gentle wave rolling over her being.  
  
"I love you, Cersei," Jon murmured at last. "I want to be yours. Will you let me? Will you stay true to me?"  
  
"You cannot know what it's like to love someone from your first breath." Cersei opened her eyes. Blinked back tears. "The first time I felt whole was with Jaime. It wasn't even very _good_. He was a boy. He lasted all of seven thrusts. _I counted_." A rueful smile spread across Cersei's face. "He is half my heart. Half my soul. It was once unthinkable that we should ever be parted."  
  
"I know I've no right to ask you to forsake half your heart," Jon said in a fragile whisper.  
  
Cersei swallowed. Gave her husband's hand a firm squeeze. _Perhaps this love is to be my true walk of atonement_. There was silver threaded through the gold weave of her soul now. She could not unravel it without unmaking herself. "You have every right, Snow," she conceded. "The truth is that Jaime was lost to me before I wedded you."  
  
"I forgive you," breathed Jon. "We'll never have it easy. We have so many ghosts. But we have our children."  
  
A tear broke from Cersei's eye. Cut a hot trail across her nose. "I didn't know your measure when I bid you south." Her voice was a quavering wreck. "You were a false king to be uncrowned. A wolf to be caged. _I didn't know_."  
  
Jon nosed into the nape of Cersei's neck. "I know your true heart, Cersei Lannister," he intoned, the edge of a breath. Fingers smoothed across the sleek silk of her dress. "You try to hide it, aye, but I see it in the way you hold the twins." Pulling her against him, he pressed a light, scraping kiss to her skin, the scruff of his beard tormenting her sweetly.  
  
"A man cannot truly know what lives in a woman's heart," Cersei replied, yielding into the fastness of Jon's embrace. "You aren't blessed with a mother's joys. Nor are you cursed with a mother's sorrows. You do not fight our little wars." She paused to draw a steadying breath. "I would've cast myself from the Red Keep if I'd never borne Jaime's children." Another pause. Another slow inhalation. "I would've burned with it if you hadn't put the twins in my womb."  
  
Jon mouthed at the skin Cersei's of nape. Clutched at the fabric of her gown. "I've seen your worst and your best." The words were quiet and halting. "Show me what I can't see. _Everything_. Even if it takes until I'm old and grey."  
  
"There are twenty years between us, Snow. I shall be gone long before you approach your dotage."  
  
"No," Jon vowed, his accent rounding the word into something beautiful. "I'll be an old man with an ancient wife."


	12. Chapter 12

Thunder boomed through the winter calm. Rattled the ancient stones of the castle. A fell shadow curdled out of the veiling haze of snow, wings unfurled like great, leathery sails against the corpse-grey vault of the sky. Two smaller sister-shadows appeared behind it, circling, circling, circling over the keep like carrion birds over a dying beast.  
  
Jon curved gloved fingers over Cersei's left hand where it rested on the cold granite of the parapet. She swung her gaze around to look at him, the soft, silver tufts of the fox pelt at the collar of her cloak tickling her cheeks in the wind. Her right hand lay perched on the modest rise of her belly. Tiny flutters pulsed through the lambskin of her gloves.  
  
The black dragon's roar had heralded the end of her reign. She hadn't feared losing her crown. Nor her own life. What had made her heart clamour, in her final moments upon the Iron Throne, had been the thought of her unborn children. That fear lived in her chest now, a dread weight that grew heavier each day, as the chokehold of winter tightened.  
  
"Your place is at my side," Jon said, low and gentle, giving Cersei's hand a reassuring clench.  
  
A scoffing hum rose from Cersei's throat. Her right brow slashed skyward. "I have not forgotten my courtesies, Snow."  
  
"I wasn't speaking of duty," Jon replied. "This isn't the capital. You're my wife. You'll be honoured you as such."  
  
"Blood binds people as they will it." Cersei's voice thrummed cool and sinuous over the bustle of the courtyard below. "You are the Targaryen girl's only living kin. The son of a brother she shall never know. Do not spurn her favour."  
  
Jon glowered. Sucked in a sharp sniff. "The Queen won't march her men south if I make her cross."  
  
"That is not my fear," Cersei hissed. "What of _our daughter_ , her named heir, should she have issue of her own?"  
  
"What would you have me do, Cersei?" Jon asked, his breath wafting into the frigid air.  
  
"Play the dragon, Snow, for Joanna's sake," answered Cersei.  
  
With a tight nod, Jon turned and strode away, black cloak billowing behind him. Cersei followed him off the walkway. Alys was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The twins were astride Ghost's back where he lay on the ground. In their matching cloaks, thick wool tunics, and little fur caps, they were impossible for a stranger's eye to tell apart.  
  
"Papa!" Joanna squealed, wide gaze alighting on Jon. Tufts of white fur sprouted from between her grasping fingers. Digging her tiny, black boots into the great beast's flanks, she bounced up and down with boundless glee.  
  
"Aye, little one," Jon said, a smile curving his lips as he bent to scoop his daughter into his arms.  
  
"Papa! Papa! Papa!" chirruped the child, her tiny gloved fist shooting up to grasp a bunch of Jon's whiskers.  
  
Cersei's heart seized at the sight. Crouching down, she wrapped her arms around Damon, hoisted him off the wolf. The little pink mouth rounded in a yawn. He gave a tiny, contented coo, his head settling against her sternum.  
  
They walked to the centre of the courtyard. Snow had been cleared, piled in high, muddy hillocks against the castle walls. Sansa stood, tall and straight-backed as statue, Arya on her left side and Bran in his wheeled chair on her right. Meera flanked her husband. Brienne, Jaime, Ser Davos, and others were rowed in a line two paces back.  
  
The high gates groaned open. Four horses trotted into the yard. Their hooves clopped against the frozen ground. At the fore rode Daenerys Targaryen on a pale stallion, her long, silver hair spilling down her black-and-red cloak. Tyrion trailed a yard behind on a dun garron. Two Summer Islanders brought up the rear on chestnut mounts.  
  
Daenerys slid fluidly from her horse. A young stablehand rushed toward her. Seized the beast's reins and lead it away. The Queen let her eyes survey the bleak height of the castle. Then she swept forward with her Hand at her side. The Summer Islanders, a stone-faced man and an elegant woman with folded hands, followed at a short distance.  
  
"The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," Sansa declared when Daenerys halted in front of her.  
  
"We are glad to have the warmth of your hearth," Daenerys replied in a gracious tone.  
  
"I confess winter does not make for a kind road, Lady Stark," said Tyrion, looking at Sansa with undisguised fondness.  
  
Sansa's lips flickered into a wan smile. She held Tyrion's gaze. An unspoken fellowship passed between them. "Chambers have been prepared for your party, my lord," she stated, the frost of her voice thawing slightly.  
  
Daenerys moved to stand before Jon, her black riding boots crunching against gravel and hard, ice-choked earth. She lifted her right hand. Curled two gloved fingers under Joanna's little chin. The babe gave a pealing laugh.  
  
"I pray you do not fear heights," Daenerys told Jon. "You demand my dragons. Rhaegal demands a rider."  
  
"The Wall rids one of that fear rather quickly, Your Grace," Jon assured her.  
  
"Call me Dany," returned the Queen, her lips arcing into a soft smile. "We are blood, Aegon. Let no walls divide us."  
  
Jon inhaled slowly. The apple of his throat bobbed under his gorget. "My family know me as Jon."  
  
Daenerys's mouth firmed into a line. Softness fled from her features. Fire flashed in the sea-green depths of her eyes. "You find the name your dying mother gave you displeasing?" she asked, hard and blunt as the blow of a mace.  
  
"I would have you know me as the man I am," Jon rejoined, undaunted under the sear of his aunt's gaze.  
  
_Curse your Stark pride, Snow_ , Cersei seethed. She should have known that his nature would get the better of him. That he could never be anything but the son of Ned Stark, an earnest, infuriatingly honourable fool to the last  
  
"Perhaps _another_ shall soon bear the name Aegon Targaryen," Tyrion said, imbuing the words with buoyant flourish. His eyes landed upon the subtle curve of Cersei's abdomen. Thin lips knifed into an indulgent twist of a smile.  
  
"Perhaps," Daenerys allowed, turning a cool gaze toward Cersei.  
  
"Now I must beg your leave, Your Grace, for there is much to discuss with my brother and sister."  
  
Daenerys eyed Tyrion for a blink. Then her gaze glided to a spot behind Cersei's shoulder. A smile graced her lips. Unease slithered in Cersei's gut. She shifted Damon to the other side of her chest. Tiny boots skidded against silk.  
  
"Let us share bread and salt in the Great Hall," Sansa pronounced evenly.  
  
"I am not hungry," stated the expressionless Summer Islander. His thickly-accented voice was as flat as still water. Snowflakes clung to the beetle-black leather of his armour like pale stars set amidst the dark shroud of night.  
  
"It is a custom by which lords extend their guests protection," explained the woman at his side. She wore a placid, forbearing expression befitting of a ruler, and had hair that spread out from her head in tightly-coiling curls.  
  
"This custom will not protect one if lord wishes one dead."  
  
"It is a gesture of goodwill," the woman returned, the corners of her lips twitching up.  
  
The Summer Islanders and their silver-haired queen filed inside of the castle after Lady Sansa and the other Starks. Jon tarried behind. His impossibly dark gaze sought Cersei's. Uncertainty was inscribed in the union of his brows. Joanna fussed in his arms, boots drumming against his brown coat-of-plate, fingers snatching at his beard.  
  
Cersei gave her husband a tight nod. He offered a fragile smile. Then, with a swish of his cloak, he turned from her. Disappeared through the wide, black maw of the entrance leading into the castle, Ser Davos following at his side.  
  
There was a muted _thump_. Cersei swung her eyes to its source. Jaime was knelt with his arms slung around Tyrion. Tyrion's eyes were closed. He gripped the silver-black fur trimming Jaime's crimson cloak. Blew out a breath.  
  
Jaime rose after a long moment. Pulled down the front of his black coat. "It's good to have you back, brother."  
  
"You may think differently soon," Tyrion said, his voice soft with the kid-leather of contrition.  
  
A deep furrow rent the gap between Jaime's brows. His eyes shot to where Brienne stood a pace distant. The knight held his gaze, shoulders squared under her black plate, gloved hand resting on the golden pommel of her sword.  
  
"I should attend Lady Stark," Brienne told Jaime once the silence had stretched thin between them.  
  
"What I have to say concerns you as much as it does my brother," Tyrion said.  
  
Fury crashed through Cersei's veins in a molten torrent. With sudden, brutal clarity, she knew the tidings to come. _Yours has always been a trusting heart_ , she thought, eyes cleaving briefly to the beloved face of her twin. Then, clutching her slumbering son tighter to her chest, she broke for the castle with a sharp snap of her cloak.  
  
The others drifted after her like a trio of unmoored boats. She lead them past the thrumming chatter of the Great Hall. Down a tangle of corridors. Up a coil of stairs. Into a chamber in which drowned light spilled across a long table.  
  
Cersei glided to one of the windows. She blew out a long, weary breath, the heat of it clouding the lead-lighted glass. A red smear she knew to be the heart tree rose above the bare brown of the walled grove beyond the main keep. Three chairs scraped against the stone floor in succession. Weight settled in them with the cracking complaint of wood.  
  
Silence ruled the room for a fraught span. Cersei turned, slowly, cradling Damon's head. Jaime's gaze caught hers. He held her eye, jaw clenched, brow scored. Tyrion sloshed wine into a goblet and nudged it across the table to him.  
  
"The Queen wishes an alliance," Tyrion stated, tipping a helping of wine into another goblet for himself.  
  
"She has the full support of our house," replied Jaime in a tart drawl. "What more could she possibly need of us?"  
  
"A _lasting_ alliance," Tyrion answered. He lifted his goblet to his lips. Took a small, steady swig, letting the words sit. "Half a decade of war has exacted a grisly toll. High lords are in short supply. Daenerys wishes to preserve our fledgling peace by further uniting Houses Lannister and Targaryen."  
  
The words crackled through the quiet of the room. Jaime's eyes grew wide. His lips parted slightly on a voiceless gasp. It harrowed Cersei's heart, the abject look of shock on her twin's face, the clench of his living hand around the goblet. In the chair to his left, Brienne's back was unbent as a pine, her face so still it seemed carved from marble.  
  
" _No_ ," Jaime said at last, a low, vicious snarl that brought out the grit in his voice.  
  
"It isn't wise to refuse a woman with three dragons," Tyrion said, his lips cracking into a tiny, rueful smile.  
  
"I don't care if she has ten-thousand bloody dragons!" seethed Jaime. "I am sworn to another woman. Let your queen wed whatever man will have her. I'm sure the realm is crawling with eager suitors. Marry her yourself for all I care."  
  
"A betrothal isn't quite so fixed as matrimony," Tyrion countered, sadness tinging the words.  
  
Jaime slammed the goblet down. "It is as solemn an oath as any. Or has breaking one vow damned my word forever?" The square jaw flexed. A huff burst out of the sharp nose. "A man without honour? Is that how you see me, little brother?"  
  
"I would not have suggested this match if I did not think you worthy of her," Tyrion replied.  
  
Brienne captured Jaime's hand. Her eyes found his, then, soft and wistful. "Perhaps this is what the Seven will."  
  
" _Fuck_ the Seven," Jaime said, all water and sand. "I want _you_. The woman I've chosen. The woman I _love_."  
  
A sharp pang lanced through Cersei's chest. Those had been her words once; her strong hands and her wicked lips. It had been her bed Jaime had shared in the small hours before Robert roused from the stupor of drink. The Gods, in their pitilessness, had broken that golden thread, and now they would deny Jaime the balm of a woman's heart again.  
  
"This wasn't your first love, and it won't be your last," Tyrion promised.  
  
Cersei laughed, a bitter, joyless sound. Anger swam through her blood. Closed off her throat like a choking grip. "Spare him your false pity," she snarled. "You've delighted in our misery since you tore your way out of our mother."  
  
"Don't start with that madness," Jaime snapped, his eyes weighted as they shot to Cersei.  
  
"It's the _truth_ ," Cersei spat. "Murdering Father wasn't enough. He needs to rule us as Father did. Humiliate us. Make us _suffer_."  
  
"Yes, such a terrible fate I've bought for you, dear sister," Tyrion rejoined, setting his goblet down with a muted _clunk_. "Exiled to the North with your unaccountably devoted husband when you could've burned like Aerion Brightflame."  
  
"Jaime has loved you from the moment he first beheld you. Even as he wept for Mother. 'I have a baby brother,' he said proudly. To the septon and the groom and the scullery maid. He's shown you nothing but kindness. _Undeserved_ kindness. This insult is how you would repay him?"  
  
Tyrion's brows knit together. His gaze lingered upon her. It was heavy, and haunted, and altogether hateful. A pitying look, as if he fancied that he knew the workings of her heart, had tasted the cruel consuming agony of her lot. "Someone once told me," he said, quiet as rain, "if we tried to work out who deserves what, we'd weep the rest of our days."  
  
Cersei let out a scoffing hum. Her lips flicked into a brutal slash. _Of course you'd wield my own words against me_. Wheeling around, she cast her gaze out over the white and grey of the keep, gently rocking her sleeping son.  
  
"The Queen will expect an answer within the week," Tyrion stated after a length of silence.  
  
"I seem to remember putting a sword in her father's back," Jaime contended, a raw scrape of gravel.  
  
"A deed she has not forgotten," replied Tyrion evenly. "But one she knows spared countless innocent lives."  
  
A sigh was the only reply. Wood screeched against stone as a chair was pushed out. Boots pounded from the room. Wind pelted snow against the window. Red boughs trembled in the grove. The child stirred within Cersei's womb.  
  
"My lady," came Tyrion's voice at last. " _Princess_." Another chair skidded out. Footsteps shuffled to the door.  
  
The last chair left the table shortly after. Armour rattled faintly. "Has Lord Jaime kept his oath?" Brienne broached. An awkward pause followed. "Forgive me for speaking so plainly. It has weighed upon me for some time."  
  
_Lord Jaime_ , Cersei noted. The dutiful heart that hammered beneath the black breastplate was shoring its walls. Forcing her lips to curve into a small, placatory smile, she spun around to meet the press of Lady Brienne's gaze. "Would it ease your burden to discover he had not?" she asked, striving to keep her tone conversational.  
  
"It would not, princess," Brienne replied, her voice as solemn as her face.  
  
"Perhaps it will comfort you to know that it is a Targaryen prince or princess I carry."  
  
Brienne swallowed. The set of her shoulders relaxed. "I pray the Mother favours you with an easy birth."  
  
"Birthing a child is never easy." Cersei's smile melted wider. "You shall see for yourself one day."  
  
"Princess," Brienne said, giving a deferential nod. She turned, then, and strode toward the door with a soft clanking.    
  
Cersei faced the window once more. Damon shifted sleepily in her arms. She pressed a kiss to the top of his fur cap. Watched the thick white flakes slant down over the bleak winter beauty of the keep and the hills beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Missandei is from Naath, not the Summer Islands, but Cersei was making an appearance-based assumption. In the same way the Dothraki referred to Jorah, a Northman, as "Jorah the Andal," assuming everyone from Westeros was of that ethnicity.


	13. Chapter 13

Wan light trickled in through the window. Glazed the tangled furs in a faint grey glow. There was no colour yet. The world was waiting, silent as the unrelenting drive of snow, as the space suspended between two breaths.  
  
Warm breath gusted across the back Cersei's neck. Jon nuzzled into her nape. Pressed a tender kiss to her skin. Arms belting her waist tighter, he cleaved her body closer to his own, splaying his fingers on the curve of her belly. The babe moved within her. Leapt and twisted and swam. Beat a pattering dance against Jon's reverent palms.  
  
_Such a singular feeling_ , Cersei mused, lips tugging into a smile. She loved growing round with child. It had been a secret hidden in plain sight, once, a small, thrilling treason against a royal husband who warmed his bed with whores. Now it was a tiny flicker of hope, sheltered within her living flesh, pressing back the choking black of despair.  
  
"Are there any names you favour?" Cersei broached after a long, familiar silence.  
  
"Arya," Jon replied without hesitation. "Maybe Alysanne. Or Jeyne. I've always liked Jeyne."  
  
A flutter coursed through Cersei's chest. _Your heart sits upon your sleeve, Snow_. "Jeyne was the name of my father's mother." She paused for a moment. Let the words steep. "What if the Gods should afflict you with a second son?"  
  
"Aemon," answered Jon. "For the maester who served the Watch before Sam." An exhalation tickled Cersei's nape. "He was a good man. A _wise_ man. I wish he could've known we were kin. It might've eased his final years a little."  
  
Cersei prodded Jon with her shoulder. His arms obligingly slithered away. She turned over, then, a slow, awkward roll. In the ghost-light leaking into the room, her husband's face was a soft, pale thing, wrought of silver and shadow. "Robert once demanded Aemon Targayen's head," she said, reaching up to graze her fingers along the bristled jaw.  
  
Jon's brow crumpled. Shock blew his dark eyes wide. "The blood of children wasn't enough for the King?" he grit out. "He'd have murdered an old man for his name? A name he foreswore when he took the black _and_ his chain?"  
  
_Robert would have ended you in your crib had he known your true father_. _I might never have beheld your lovely face_. It was a terrible thought. Cersei swallowed. Flicked a possessive thumb across the rounded slope of Jon's cheek. "Let us not waste the morning speaking of Robert Baratheon, Snow," she pronounced in a low, even tone.  
  
"Aye, let's not," Jon agreed, the merest edge of a whisper.  
  
Catching his chin in her grip, Cersei pressed Jon back onto the bed and claimed his lips in a hard, consuming kiss. She plunged her tongue into the searing cavern of his mouth. Lashed it against the soft slick length of his tongue. His fingers bent around the back of her neck, and she tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, reaping a raw moan.  
  
"Don't think I'm ready to meet the day yet," Jon told her in a ragged hush when they finally parted.  
  
" _Good_ ," Cersei returned, slinging a leg over Jon's hips. Her hands dove to unlace the ties of his brown breeches. Warm hands stole beneath the skirt of her nightdress. Rucked the blue silk up and settled on the swell of her belly.  
  
A knock sounded at the door. Jon shut his eyes. Huffed out a snort. "Will you get that?" he asked, rough and strained. Cloth rustled as his fingers worked to hastily stuff his eager member back into the confines of his breeches.  
  
Cersei said nothing, just offered her husband an arched brow, then clambered off of the bed. Smoothing down the front of her nightdress, she strode toward the door of the chamber, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor.  
  
The bolt gave a dull metal screech as Cersei slid it out. Hinges sighed as she opened the door a hand's breadth. Black eyes in a brown face greeted her through the crack. _Missandei_ , Cersei recalled, tamping down a surge of ire. Daenerys and her strange retinue had dogged every meal she'd taken in the Great Hall over the past week.  
  
"I apologize for the disturbance," said Missandei. "Lord Tyrion wishes to see to the prince in the Great Hall at once."  
  
"Allow him the courtesy of dressing first," Cersei rejoined, not troubling to keep the acid out of her tone.  
  
"Of course," Missandei returned, infuriatingly calm. She gave a small, acknowledging nod, then turned to leave. The guard shuffled back into position, and Cersei shut the door on his pike-stiff back with a solid, satisfying _thud_.  
  
Silence hung over the room for a length. Cersei drew a deep, bracing breath. Wheeled to face her husband. He was stood by his trunk, now, shorn of his sleep-clothes, the glory of his muscled body laid out like a feast for her gaze. Eyes as dark as pitch held hers. Pink lips twitched into a fragile smile. Warmth chased the fury from Cersei's chest.  
  
"I promised Brienne I'd help her train the girls after breakfast," Jon said, shoving his legs into a pair of black breeches. "I thought it'd be easier for them. Learning swordplay from a woman. But I think they find her intimidating."  
  
An image of Brienne with her hand balanced atop the gold pommel of her sword sprung to the fore of Cersei's mind. _She shall always carry a part of Jaime with her_. The Gods had spared her nothing of her twin. All she had were ghosts. The ghost of large hands on her skin. Of a bold tongue unmaking her. Of three children as bright as the sun.  
  
"I imagine there is a certain solace in sweat and steel," Cersei stated, wistfulness colouring her tone.  
  
Jon bent to retrieve his linen undershirt from where it lay on the trunk. "There's no solace in blood," he said simply. Pulling the garment over his head, he pushed his arms into the sleeves, then unfurled it down over his scarred torso.  
  
Cersei slinked toward her own trunk. She dressed slowly: linen shift, black woollen gown, heavy leather overgown. The gown still hugged her figure like a second skin, though it parted, now, around the modest rise of the babe.  
  
Bootsteps thudded behind Cersei. Arms snaked gently around her waist. Gloved hands spread open atop her belly. "You know what the battle dress does to me," intoned her husband, a husky thrum against the shell of her ear.  
  
Cersei gave a huff of a laugh. She smiled, a warm, wicked little twist. "I fear your sword must stay sheathed."  
  
"Aye," Jon replied, stepping away. He plucked a silver pauldron from the chest. Fitted it over Cersei's right shoulder. Tiny tinkling snaps filled the air as he fumbled with the hooks to fasten the metal cap to the black leather of her dress.  
  
"I expect Jaime has given Tyrion an answer," Cersei remarked after a wordless stretch.  
  
Jon leaned down. Picked up the left pauldron. Set it in place. "He'll be wanting us to prepare for a wedding."  
  
"There isn't food to spare," Cersei snapped. "Let the Dothraki butcher their mounts if their queen demands a feast." There was a bitterness riding below the words. An elemental fury simmering within the furnace of her chest.  
  
Jon gripped Cersei's upper arms. Gently wheeled her around to face him. "Have you ever eaten horse?" he inquired. His eyes held hers as his hands lifted. He strung the chain between her pauldrons. Latched the clasp with a _click_. "You're as like to starve north of the Wall as freeze. Meat is worth more than gold. A lamed horse is supper."  
  
"I have endured _mutton_ for the last two moons, Snow."  
  
"We all have," Jon commiserated, the hint of a smile playing at his full lips.  
  
Cersei offered her husband a grim smile. Seizing his right hand, she guided it downward, pressed it to her abdomen. "Olenna has so kindly ceded the Reach's bounty to our winter stores. I want _justice_. For my son. For our child."  
  
Jon's expression turned grave. He puffed out a soft breath through his nose. "We'll speak with Tyrion."  
  
Their gazes remained locked for a span. Then, parting, they moved to the door. Jon took Cersei's cloak from the rack. Wrapped it around her shoulders with his habitual care and fastened the silver clasp at the hollow of her throat.  
  
Cersei's mind leapt to the Red Keep as Jon donned his cloak. To the weight of his bastard's cloak settling upon her shoulders. Tenderness had lived in his hands, then, and solemn duty, even as his dark eyes had blazed with the fire of loathing. She had given him no quarter, that night when she took him to her bed, only sated her need to bring an enemy low.  
  
The guard stepped aside when Jon swung open the door. Silence cloaked the half-lit corridor like a burial shroud. Cersei followed her husband as he wended through the still, grey space, black boots clicking against age-worn stone. A maid hastened by as they descended a twisting staircase. The castle was only rousing from the clutch of night.  
  
"Ah, there you are," Tyrion greeted when they entered the Great Hall. "Come break your fast with us."  
  
Cersei's gaze snapped to where Alys was spooning porridge into Damon's mouth opposite of Tyrion at the table. Joanna bounced as her big dark eyes alighted on her father. Drummed her little hands on the tray of her infant chair. "Papa! Papa! Papa!" she twittered, her tiny, clear voice like a bell ringing out the sweet purity of her joy.  
  
Jon's gaze was transfixed upon the man beside Tyrion. The kraken on his black leather cuirass betrayed him as a Greyjoy. At his right side was seated a girl of four, her unruly brown hair and slanting, grey-green eyes the mirror of his own. She wore a rough-spun tunic the grey of a storm-swept sky. Her grubby little fingers were stuck in her porridge bowl.  
  
"Hello, Jon," said the man. He held Jon's gaze for a beat. Then his chin dipped and his eyes darted away.  
  
Leather creaked as Jon balled his gloved hands into fists. Taking a sharp, swift intake of air, he stood his ground. "You don't belong here," he snarled, low and fierce. "Not after what you did. Robb loved you as a  _brother_."  
  
"I know," came the impossibly small reply.  
  
"Prince Theon is an honoured friend of Queen Daenerys," Tyrion stated, raising his pewter goblet in a modest toast. "He sank Euron's fleet at King's Landing. Now he marches an army north to help hold Eastwatch. Sit with us."  
  
A skittering breath burst out of Jon. Understanding curdled in Cersei's gut an instant later. _Eastwatch will be hit first_. Cersei watched Jon step forward, gathering Joanna into his arms and falling into a chair in a heavy, graceless slump. She settled into the chair to his right. Damon spluttered happily on her other side. Tugged at the edge of her cloak.  
  
"You've done well," Theon remarked as Cersei turned a smile toward her gleeful son.  
  
"I took a knife to the heart," countered Jon, a defensive edge in his tone.  
  
"And you rose harder and stronger for it. You took back Winterfell from the Boltons. You married a Lannister." Guilt choked the watery tremble of Theon's voice. "You made friends of enemies. I made enemies of friends."  
  
Cersei turned to look at Jon. His face was soft and open, now, as if a mask had slipped away. His eyes shone wetly. "I did what I had to do for my family," he said quietly, clutching Joanna's head where it rested on his shoulder.  
  
Theon's gaze found Jon's. Held it as if staring at the sun. "You _were_ my family. All of you. I was too proud to see it." The apple of the slender white throat wobbled with a swallow. "We both lost our real father to the same swing."  
  
"Aye, we did," agreed Jon, sadness weighing the words.  
  
A serving girl rushed in balancing two food-laden trenchers. Hastily placed them down in front of Jon and Cersei. Cersei looked at the humble Northern repast: a heap of boiled potatoes, five strips of salt pork, and a crusty black roll. Her trencher bore twice what Jon had been apportioned. _Healthy helpings make a healthy babe_ , Wolkan insisted.  
  
Cersei plucked a fork off the table. Jon began gnawing loudly beside her. Indignation flared in the pit of her stomach. "I take it the little dove is yours?" she broached with an air of mildness, favouring Theon with an appraising look.  
  
Theon's fallen shoulders drew upwards. A spark of pride lit his eyes. "This is Princess Marys, heir to the Salt Throne." His maimed right hand capped the girl's pate. Her mouth opened in a crooked smile. Porridge slipped off her fingers. "My sister made her a Greyjoy. Her mother's gone. Taken by fever. I'm all she has. And she's all I'll ever have."  
  
Cersei's lips arced into a taut smile. She speared a chunk of potato. Lifted her fork to her mouth. Chewed with tiny bites. _My cockless nephew_ , Euron had called Theon when he came offering his fleet. Qyburn had confirmed the slight's truth. It had seemed a trifling thing, then, that terrible jeer. Just another enemy's line ending in dust and sorrow.  
  
"Who was her mother?" Jon inquired, his voice soft with pity.  
  
"Her name was Serra. She was a... _girl_...from Wintertown." Theon's gaze dropped away. The implication was plain. "The Boltons weren't kind to her. Said she deserved what she got for taking a turncloak's coin. She fled to Pyke."  
  
Tyrion's gaze flicked to Theon. Silently prodded him to continue. But the grey-green eyes had come unmoored again. Setting his goblet down on the table, Tyrion turned to look at Jon, a small, forbearing smile curling his thin mouth. "Queen Yara wishes to forge a new era of friendship between the Iron Islands and the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
Fury struck like a hammer-blow in Cersei's gut. She swallowed against the dry knot in her throat. Lowered her fork. _He means to seal an alliance as he did with Myrcella_. _My son, barely weaned from my breast, sold to a whore's brat_.  
  
"Every man who pledges to fight for the living is a friend," Jon assured Tyrion.  
  
Theon's eyes settled upon Jon once more. "What happened to Serra was my fault," he said, his voice clearer now. "No one believed her story about Marys being mine. A man in Lordsport took her to wife. Then he cast her out like an unwanted dog when she fell ill." The words were strained. "Marys deserves things I can't give her. Home. _Family_. I ask that you foster her, Jon."  
  
Jon laid his fork on the edge of his trencher with a hollow _clack_. Cersei swung her gaze around to look upon his face. Black eyes yawned with surprise. The pale column of his throat worked above the wolf-embossed steel of his gorget. "Wouldn't it be best for her to grow up among her own people if she's to lead them?" he asked in an even voice.  
  
"The Ironborn choose their rulers," explained Tyrion. "There is no guarantee Marys shall succeed her aunt. Still, in the event she does, she'll be as a sister to Joanna. I can think of no better way to ensure peace between our realms."  
  
"She won't be lonely," Theon insisted, a little more avidly. "She'll have a friend. A _true_ friend. The band of boys she played with on Pyke turned on her when they saw her for a girl."  
  
Cersei drew a breath through her nose. Turned a level eye toward Alys. "Settle the princess into the twins' chamber." This one small kindness she would grant her brother. It was a debt he'd need to pay. A debt she'd soon collect.  
  
Alys spun her mousey head around to look at Jon. Her eyes were round and uncertain. "My prince?"  
  
"Aye, the castle's near bursting," Jon assented. "She can bed with the twins until the worst of winter is over."  
  
"Thank you, Jon," Theon said. His chair squealed against the cold stone floor as he pushed it out and rose to his feet. He hefted his daughter into his arms. She jammed her fingers into her mouth. Sucked away a glob of porridge.  
  
Springing out of her chair, Alys gave a swift, fumbling curtsey. Theon trailed after her as she hastened out of the hall. Silence sprawled in the wake of their departure. The hall became a clash of small sounds. Jon's smacking munches. Damon's little lambswool slippers kicking at the air. Tyrion's thumb scraping across the nubs girding his goblet.  
  
"I do not trust the crown princess of the Iron Islands to your care lightly," Tyrion said at last.  
  
"I know," Jon replied, earnestness tempering his quiet voice. "Sansa told me what Ramsay Bolton did to Theon."  
  
Tyrion's mouth carved into a half-smile. "And people tell of the fate Ramsay Bolton met at the hands of Lady Sansa." The smile withered a blink later. A thoughtful line rent his brow. "It was never consummated. Our... _marriage_."  
  
Blood boiled in Cersei's veins. _Play the gallant all you like_. _You were free to spurn your duty_. _I got no such reprieve_. "No, your little worm favoured crawling inside of your Lorathi whore, didn't it?" she seethed, a slow, venomous drawl. "Tell me, little brother, was it difficult? Wrapping your hands around her pretty throat? Choking the life from her?"  
  
Tyrion blinked. His gullet fluttered above the collar of his leather jerkin. "Such a fine family the Queen shall soon join."  
  
The words found their mark. Cersei's heart quivered within her chest. Her throat suddenly felt too tight to breath. _Jaime is mine_. _My brother_. _My soul_. The witch had seen truth. A younger queen had come to claim her twin.  
  
Jon settled a hand atop Cersei's where it rested on the table. "It's been decided, then? There's to be a wedding?"  
  
"A week from today," answered Tyrion. "Time enough for the last wagons to brave the Kingsroad."  
  
"I expect the woman who murdered my son shall be our esteemed guest," Cersei hissed.  
  
"Winter does not agree with an elderly constitution," Tyrion replied, lowering his goblet to the tabletop with a _clack_. "Olenna Tyrell has been relieved of the burden of her ladyship and retired to the gentler climate of Pentos."  
  
"She poisoned _my son_. Her rightful king. She hired a brute to slit my throat. Nearly murdered the child within me." Cinders seemed to fill Cersei's mouth. Her heart clapped against her ribs. "I want her _flayed_. I want her to _scream_." Wrath burned in her blood. Clotted within her chest. Long fingers twitched beneath the mantle of Jon's hand.  
  
"You've craved horrible things all your life," Tyrion said, quiet as a drifting cloud. "Power. Revenge. Heads on spikes." Thin lips flicked into a wan smile. "Your nurse's reports haven't fallen on deaf ears. The Queen knows of Olenna's crimes. You have justice. The best justice I could arrange."  
  
A bitter shard of a laugh stabbed out of Cersei. " _Justice?_ " she seethed. "Do not insult me, you little _beast_."  
  
"You burned Olenna's son and grandchildren. Ended hundreds of innocent lives. Many would rejoice at your death. Do you think the people would stand to see an old woman lose her head when you've been granted a life in exile?"  
  
"I do not trouble myself over the whims of unlettered peasants," Cersei snapped.  
  
"Perhaps you should," rejoined Tyrion. "Your daughter shall rule these seven kingdoms one day. The Rose Sept will sit upon Margaery's Hill, orphans will sleep in homes built by Tyrell gold, and what will your legacy be, I wonder?"  
  
Cersei snatched her hand out from under Jon's. Her chair screamed across the flagstones as she stood. Straightening the halves of her leather gown, she said, "Sitting the Iron Throne before your Dragon Queen." Then she pulled Damon out of his infant chair, settling him against her shoulder and sweeping from the hall with quick, swishing strides.  
  
Jon caught up to her when she was halfway down the corridor. "Cersei?" he asked, a tiny, faltering breath.  
  
Black boots halted in front of a window. Cersei released a long, skittering sigh. It clouded the lead-lighted glass. Transmuted the figures moving about the courtyard outside into black insects scurrying across a bone-white field. Damon stirred in her arms. The babe turned and twisted within her. Struggled against the bounds of her womb.  
  
"You must think me a monster," Cersei pronounced after a drawn-out silence.  
  
"You've done terrible things," Jon said softly. "You've also lost so much. Endured so much. _I love you_. I always will." Boots scuffed against stone as he shifted. "I'll have Olenna hanged if she ever sets foot in Westeros again."  
  
Cersei pivoted her head to meet her husband's dark eyes. Joanna gave a honeyed smile from the berth of his arms. "I doubt she shall last the winter," she averred in a droll tone. The dread crush of fury eased within her chest.  
  
"But you will," returned Jon, his lips arcing into a smile warm enough to chase away the deepest snows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marys is a blend of the name of one of Theon's deceased older brothers, Maron, and that of his mother, Alannys. I also chose it because _maris_ [means](https://www.behindthename.com/name/maris) "of the sea" in Latin and the Ironborn obviously have a strong connection to the ocean. Theon would have had to father her on Serra shortly before the Boltons took Winterfell in the very last episode of season two. That would place her birth toward the end of the third season, making her a few months younger than Little Sam. She's probably closer to five, being that this chapter is set during what would be the eighth season (305AL), but four is Cersei's estimate.
> 
> This season has lead me to put more thought into how Dany's bid to take the Iron Throne would have played out under the circumstances featured in this fic. With Jon a hostage at the Red Keep, and Dany aware of his Targayren heritage thanks to a plea for help from Sansa, Tyrion convinced her that staying at Dragonstone was too risky, due to its proximity to King's Landing, so they went to Dorne instead. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes stayed behind to hold Dragonstone for her, but Euron attacked shortly thereafter, and they were captured and taken to Cersei as "gifts." A day or so after the scene in _As Long as Your Army Keeps Perfectly Still_ , while Euron was still awaiting Cersei's answer (i.e., whether she'd marry him for his ships), Yara and Theon ambushed him from behind, trapping his fleet in Blackwater Bay with theirs. Cersei surrendered without a fight thanks to Jon imploring her to do it for their as-yet-unborn children.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recall stating in a comment some months ago that I didn't plan to include more pegging in this fic. However, circumstances changed, with that Jaime/Cersei scene in S7E3 basically serving to affirm my headcanons that 1) Cersei is sexually domineering to the point of aggression, 2) her passions rise with her anger, and 3) she apparently has a thing for bums. Thus, Cersei and Jon enter what we'd understand as a full D/S relationship in this chapter, as an outlet for dealing with her nastier impulses. Giving advance notice in case this isn't anyone's cup of tea and they'd rather pass that part of the chapter.
> 
> The outfit Cersei wears in this chapter is the one from [Dragonpit scene](https://seleya.tumblr.com/post/165011434963/ilikemyqueensevil-costume-porn) (excepting the silly "gash" on the back of the robe).
> 
> I'm planning on starting a spin-off fic focusing on the rocky beginnings of Jaime and Dany's marriage.

A crisp rustle unsettled the cloistered hush of the tiny sept. Red satin bled from the grip of Jaime's living fingers. Daenerys reached up, blindly catching the right edge of the cloak in her pale, silver-ringed hands. She tugged it over her shoulder as Jaime held the left corner in place, unfurling the lion of Lannister across white, pearl-dewed velvet.  
  
Cersei swallowed against a dry throat. The air in the chamber was too close. Choked by the forge-press of bodies. There was no space. Fury crowded her chest. Crushed against her heart. Made blood thunder through her veins.  
  
Jaime's hand tarried a beat upon Daenerys's shoulder. His throat worked above the collar of his black leather jacket. It was a subtle tell. The feeblest flicker of his true heart. Then Daenerys wheeled to face him, eyes soft, lips curved. Light slanting through the stained-glass star set above the dais jewelled the winter-white moon of her face.  
  
Jon slung an arm around Cersei's waist. Pulled her against his side. Two hands lifted, then, right fitting over left. Jaime stood, eyes fixed upon Daenerys, expression still. Cersei firmed her mouth into a line. Drew a short breath.  
  
"Let it be known that Daenerys of House Targaryen and Jaime of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul."  The septon wound a ribbon thrice around the joined hands. His voice was as the sighing of wind in summer-heavy boughs. "Woe to any man or woman who would seek to tear them asunder or blight the blessed joy of their union."  
  
Anger seethed in Cersei's gut. She wanted to do violence. To claw out the wide green eyes tilted up at her brother. Her fingers twitched where they sat on the swell of her belly. Dug shallow craters into the cloth-of-silver of her gown. In the corner of her eye, she saw Brienne standing beside Sansa, tall and stiff-spined as a figure carved of stone.  
  
Jaime's gaze was fixed upon the woman before him. His lips were moving, echoing her words, shaping the sacred vows. The sea flooded into Cersei's ears. Filled her skull with a rushing roar. Drowned the low drag of her twin's voice.  
  
Mouths shut in unison. The septon uncoiled the ribbon. Then the linked hands drifted apart and dropped away. They stood for a moment, husband and wife, uncertainty stretching between them, until the septon gave a harrumph.  
  
Jaime raised his left hand. Moulded his fingers around the gentle curve of Daenerys's jaw. Tipped her chin upwards. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declared, dipping his head down to press his lips to his bride's smile.  
  
There it was, that final, terrible oath. The words Robert had given her half a lifetime ago in the Great Sept. She'd been a maid of nine-and-ten, mantled by the gold of her king's cloak, taken by his piercing blue eyes and black-bearded jaw. A heedless sot had fallen into the bed that night, sating himself on her warmth, cursing her with a dead name.  
  
_Forty-one years, you were mine_ , Cersei thought as Jaime stepped back. _My love. My joy. My rock through Robert's storm._ Breath caught in her throat. Her mind flew to the first shy brush of Jaime's lips against her own. Another life, it seemed, now.  
  
Applause erupted. Jon unwound his arm from around Cersei's waist. His hands rose to join to the chorus. Cersei remained still, her fingers perched on the crest of her belly, drinking in the restless stir of the babe within her.  
  
The clapping abated. Jaime slipped an arm into the crook of Daenerys's. Lead her along the narrow aisle between the rowed guests. Movement filled the sept a moment later. Feet shuffled out of their places. Began filing toward the doorway.  
  
Cersei swung her gaze around to look at Brienne. The woman met her eyes, mouth flat, jaw tense. Grim acceptance was inscribed in the deep, vertical line scoring her brow, and in the battle-ready set of her broad shoulders. _The Targaryen bitch has made us sisters in our sorrow_ , she mused, wrath stalking like a caged beast inside her chest.  
  
Jon girded Cersei's waist. Drew her against his body anew. "I had no love for you once."  
  
"I assure you that the sentiment was more than mutual," said Cersei, turning a cocked brow toward her husband. Warmth shivered through her body as dark eyes found hers. The fury smothering her heart relented slightly.  
  
Pale fingers parted the halves of Cersei's black felt robe. Bloomed open like a rose on the modest rise of her belly. "Love took in my heart against all odds." Jon's voice was impossibly soft against the steady bustle of exiting guests. "You gave up your crown. You chose _our family_. How could I not fall for you, Cersei Lannister?"  
  
Cersei's lips bent into a sliver of a smile. She held Jon's gaze for a hanging span. Let his palm brace upon their child. Then his hand pulled away, while its brother prodded gently at the small of her back, urging her to wheel around. Her black-booted feet cut a quick stride as she tailed Lady Brienne out of the sept and into the grey wash of day.  
  
Cold gnawed at Cersei's cheeks. A chattering hiss punched out of her. Rose into the air in a thin finger of steam. "Staging this farce in the godswood would've allowed us the mercy of winter-wear," she remarked sourly.  
  
"We'll soon have the mercy of wine and ale," returned Jon.  
  
Another warm little cloud materialized as Cersei gave a scoff. Jon draped a thick strong arm across her shoulders. They hastened toward the castle, following a rough path hewn out between great, lumpen mountains of snow. Gravel sprinkled across the hard-packed carpet of white clinging to the ground crunched under their boots with every step.  
  
The Great Hall was a riot of activity by the time they arrived. Fires blazed in the seven hearths lining the room's walls. A minstrel's song floated above the din. Servants dashed about pouring wine. Succulent smells hung in the air.  
  
They made their way to a table that ran parallel to the inner wall. Marys was teetering on a chair beside Ser Davos. Sandor Clegane, clad in a white cloak and dragon-embossed breastplate, scowled over the rim of his flagon.  
  
Once seated between her husband and the ill-humoured knight, Cersei motioned toward a tiny, whey-faced serving girl. She hurried over to the table, timid as a mouse at the mouth of a lion's den, a large pitcher clutched in her fingers. Cersei forced a smile. Plucked a pewter goblet from the table. Held it aloft to receive a stream of Dornish red.  
   
The girl scurried away. Cersei lifted the goblet. Sweet fire licked down her throat. Stoked the wrath roiling in her gut. Her gaze shot across the forest of heads to the High Table. Fixed upon Jaime where he sat with his silver-haired wife. _You don't deserve your lot, brother. The Lord of the Rock isn't a spoil for the taking. Such an insult cannot stand._  
  
Jon took a slice from the honeyed ham on a platter before him. Knife met trencher with a hollow scrape a moment later. Then came the crude smack of his chewing. Cersei tightened her clutch on the goblet. Inhaled a sharp, furious sniff. Blood charged through her veins. The hall was a prison of bodies and noise. A red wall caging her heart.  
  
Fingers alighted upon Cersei's shoulder. Gave the gentlest of squeezes. "I know this isn't easy for you," Jon told her. It was the same warm, intimate hush that had roused her in the hour before dawn, saying her name like an oath.  
  
Cersei dragged her gaze around. Depthless eyes consumed her. A stillness settled within her chest. For a small, fleeting moment, the world melted away and time crawled, then the choking fury came surging back into her heart. Her fingers flexed around the goblet. Bile rose at the back of her throat. Mixed with the lingering tang of wine.  
   
"You should eat something," Jon urged, eyebrows slanting upward in open concern.  
  
"I am not a doddering crone in need of your keeping, Snow," Cersei snapped.  
  
Jon's eyes slipped shut. He drew a slow, bracing breath. When he looked at her again, his gaze was sharper, harder. "A woman can't survive on wine alone," he said, low and thick. "You're my wife. My child is inside you. _Eat_."  
  
A giddy shriek rang out suddenly. Marys tumbled into Jon in a flurry of snatching fingers. Eyes sun-bright and wild, she pawed at the twin sigils stitched upon the black velvet of his fine tunic, crying, "Surrender your haul!"  
  
"Told 'er there's nothing but onions in the hold, cap'n," Davos said with a mummer's fervour.  
  
The flint left Jon's gaze. He turned to Marys, then, cracking a soft little smile, steadying her with a hand on her back. Stray wisps rebelled against the braid coiled atop her head. Gravy stained the golden kraken on her black gown.  
  
"Sit _down_ , sweetling," ordered Cersei, affecting a motherly forbearance. "You are making a spectacle."  
  
Marys's mad grin broke wider, revealing the small, dark block of a missing front tooth. "I'm Queen Yara," she insisted. Her fist butted the bottom of Jon's bearded chin. "I'm Ironborn. I take what's mine. Give me the loot or I'll gut you!"  
  
Cersei pressed the goblet to her lips. Heat washed down into her stomach. Her gaze returned to the High Table. Jaime speared a cubed bit of meat with his fork. Brought it to his mouth, his square, stubble-shadowed jaw working slowly. Daenerys was talking at his left, her mouth fluttering into the shapes of words, hand fitted into the bend of his elbow.  
  
Chatter buoyed from beside Jon. The Greyjoy girl merrily played at piracy. Jon favoured her with a father's doting. Time smeared into a haze, narrowing to the warm, familiar weight of wine in Cersei's belly and the fire in her blood. Then the burnt gold of Jaime's head fell. His mouth stole close to his wife's ear. Laughter sang across her face.  
  
Wind fled Cersei's lungs in a skittering rush. Her heart knotted in her chest. _You've always given yourself so freely_. Their golden thread was riven; their bound fates sundered. They were two souls, now, parted as if by a sea.  
  
"You pledged your sword to my late husband, did you not?" Cersei said at last, turning to Clegane.  
  
"I'm not lopping the Queen's head off because you're in a fucking mood," Clegane replied in a low, ornery rumble. "Should've kept my brother away from her beasts if you wanted a dumb fucker to kill anyone who looks at you funny."  
  
Cersei hummed. Her lips cut a brutal smile. "Must be thrilling to be a dog that can heel to whichever master suits your fancy."  
  
Clegane gave a gruff snap of a laugh. Clamped his thick fingers around his tankard. Tossed back a deep swig of ale. "Done nothing but serve Lannisters since I was old enough to fight," he said, slamming the tankard on the table.  
  
"And yet, when your king called on you to stand with him while the capital lay under siege, you turned tail."  
  
"So did he. I've had shits I liked better than your son. I wasn't dying for the whinging cunt."  
  
A twisting pang wrenched through Cersei's chest. Jerking her gaze away, she swallowed against a dry, closed throat. "I know what Joffrey was," she said after a halt, her voice an impossibly hard, deadened thing escaping her.  
  
Clegane merely grunted. Took a large hunk of roast chicken off his trencher. Tore into it with a wet rip.  
  
Cersei's gaze caught Jaime's from across the hall. He dipped his chin in a short solemn nod. His eyes were leaden. He bore the same terrible weight in his heart that she did: shame, secrets, and three children buried before their time. _You will love the children you father on her. But we shall always love our children. That love cannot be unseated._  
  
Metal clattered against wood. Cersei's head snapped around. Ale was bleeding across the table from an upset flagon. Marys's eyes were clapped upon Jon, her bottom lip rolled into a guilty pout, a butterknife hanging in her hand.  
  
"It's alright," Jon told the girl gently as he sopped up the spill with his napkin.  
  
Davos pushed out his chair with a dull screech. Stooped down to Marys's eye-level. Held out a half-fingered hand. "Permit me to see you safely to your cabin, princess," he said, warmth suffusing the lowborn lilt of his voice.  
  
Marys tipped a nod up at Davos. Slipped her small hand into his larger one. Clambered down from her chair.  
  
"Your indulgence only makes her more of a wretch," Cersei said once Marys had been lead away.  
  
"She's a handful, aye," Jon allowed. "That's no fault of her own. Her stepfather cast her out. She lived on the street." Full lips twitched into a smile as brittle as frost. "And some girls aren't meant for pretty dresses and songs."  
  
"The girl is your _ward_ , Snow," Cersei replied. "It has fallen on _you_ to rid her of her disgraceful tendencies."  
  
Jon skewered a thick slice of ham with the carving fork. Lifted it off the platter and unloaded it onto Cersei's trencher. "It's fallen on _us_ ," he said, returning the fork to its place. "Unless you mean to starve yourself into an early grave."  
  
A sudden thump met Jon's shoulder. He closed his eyes for the edge of a moment. Drew a steadying breath.  
  
Tormund Giantsbane dropped into the chair on Jon's right, his red-bearded face split by a broad, half-mad grin. Two huge hands lifted a bulging skin. Flicked open the carved bone lid. Poured fermented milk into Jon's empty mug. "Fighting, fucking, _drinking_ ," he growled. "That is how free men stay warm. Or have you turned kneeler on us, Jon Snow?"  
  
"No, he's the cunt they kneel to now," quipped Bronn, smirking as he slid into the seat beside Tormund.  
  
"I'm as much a man of the North as ever," Jon shot back with an affronted glower.  
  
Cersei rolled her eyes. Her right hand floated up on instinct. Cool metal kissed her lips. Wine blazed into her belly. Laughter was booming out of the wildling, now, a deep, shattering bellow like the shock of thunder through the sky. She wanted silence. Silence and space and air to fill her lungs. But there was only noise and the choke of fury.  
  
Letting her gaze fall, Cersei set down her goblet, swallowed. The meat sat upon her trencher, a cold, pink-brown slab. _I would rather eat my own innards_ , she thought sourly, pushing the plate away with a sharp thrust of her hand.  
  
"Your sister will soon be a very happy woman," came the croon of Bronn's voice over the din of the hall.  
  
"My sister is Lady of Winterfell," Jon said. "No man in her service would dare touch her."  
  
Interest flared within Cersei. She craned her head around. Followed the line of her husband's gaze to the High Table. Wedged into the spot between Sansa Stark and Lady Brienne was a black-haired young man clad in a red jerkin. Sansa's eyes were turned to him. Her lips moved as she spoke. The youth wore the look of a spooked deer.  
  
Bronn stabbed his flagon at the High Table. "Podrick is everything you Starks like. Loyal. Brave. _Stupidly honourable_." Thin brows angled higher. The sly grin crept wider. "And it's a magic cock he's got in his britches. The finest whores in the land had a go and let him keep his coin."  
  
"You want _my sister_ to marry a man who lays with whores?" Jon snapped.  
  
Tormund guffawed. Planted another wallop on Jon's back. "Sometimes little men are not so _little_."  
  
A mutinous scowl twisted Jon's face. The unlit pitch of his eyes threatened fire. "That joke is getting old, Tormund."  
  
"Oh, don't be so grim," Bronn said, false pity in his tone. "You've got yourself a nice golden pelt to keep off the cold." Turning a cocked brow to Tormund, he added, "There's another fine bit of fleece for the taking over there."  
  
Tormund's forehead rumpled. His sparse red brows tangled together. Then understanding registered in his green eyes. "A scorned woman needs time," he said, the thick, guttural roll of his voice tempered by concern.  
  
"I'll settle for the look you poaching that great big bird puts on Jaime Lannister's face until I get the bloody castle he owes me."  
  
"Now is not the time," replied Tormund. "He didn't deserve her. But she still loves him. That _sisterfucker_."  
  
Anger surged through Cersei's gut in a red wave. Lips pulling taut, she set her goblet down with a hard, solid _thunk_. "You forget your place, my lord," she hissed at the wildling. "I have abided your filth. I will not abide _slander_."  
  
"I may not have your fancy learning, but I know it isn't slander if it's true," rejoined Bronn.  
  
Cersei rose, her chair skidding out with a loud, shrill sound. Her hands turned to claws as she gathered her skirts. Sweeping from the table without a parting glance, she wove through the dense, jabbering thicket of massed bodies. The clamour followed her out into the chilly grey corridor. Chased after the hard clicking beat of her footsteps.  
  
Silence settled over Cersei when she rounded the corner. Twilight glowed blue through the frost-fogged windows. She felt a hunted thing, even now, heart thudding hare-swift in her breast, boots hastening her toward her chamber.  
  
"Something amiss, princess?" asked the pock-faced young guard at her approach.  
  
" _Move_ ," Cersei ordered, her voice a battering ram.  
  
The youth scrambled aside in a rustle of leather and mail. Cersei shoved the door open and glided over to the table. Plucking the old, pewter flask from where it sat on its tray, she tipped a helping of Dornish red into a goblet.  
  
Eyes pressing shut, she lifted the wine, downed a gulp. _Our guests shall soon tire of their ale and call for the bedding_. An image of silver hair melting across furs swam into her mind. Rage churned afresh in the cauldron of her stomach. _Jaime shall do the duty our dear little brother spurned. He shall bind himself to a woman he does not love._  
  
A dull creak cut through the quiet. Feet shuffled over to where Cersei stood. Then fingers unfurled on her lower back. "I'm sorry I let them carry on as long as they did," came a soft voice, no more than the phantom of a whisper.  
  
Cersei opened her eyes. Jerked her head around to look at Jon. "The Tarth woman was Jaime's last joy in this world." The words pricked at her throat. "Everything we lost. Everything we suffered. It's no more than sport to them."  
  
"I know," Jon said simply, his palm riding up the length of Cersei's spine.  
  
It was so infuriatingly naive. So infuriatingly gentle. Cersei had no use for tenderness now. Not with her blood afire. Lowering the goblet to the table, she heaved in a sharp, shallow breath and twisted her body to face her husband. Her right hand shot up. Captured the rounded chin in a firm grip. The bristles of his beard teased her fingers.  
  
Cersei smudged her thumb along the pillow of Jon's lower lip. He gasped, a warm, jittery little gust across her skin. Then she surged forward, herding him back against the table, her left hand soaring up to clasp the back of his neck.  
  
Their mouths collided in a violent and consuming kiss. Cersei held Jon's head fast between the snare of her hands. Subdued him as a lioness might her prey, feasting upon the soft, acquiescent flesh of his lips with ferocious abandon. He gave a muted groan, fingers scrabbling at the small of her back, skating across the flat smooth felt of her robe.  
  
When they finally drew apart, Cersei thrust her face into the arc of Jon's neck, nipped at the whiskery hinge of his jaw. "I do not wish to trade words, Snow," she told him in a hissing snarl. "I want you on the bed, naked, on all fours."  
  
A thready exhalation escaped Jon. Puffed across the shell of Cersei's ear. "Aye, I'm  _yours_. Do as you will."  
  
Cersei's boot-heels clipped cold stone as she retreated. Jon's eyes burned black, his plush, pink lips parted slightly. He held her gaze for a weighted stretch, fingers gripping the edge of the table, breath coming harsh and quick.  
  
Then Cersei turned, striding to her trunk with swift, sure steps. She threw open the heavy oak lid with a solid _thunk_. Bending as much as her belly allowed, she plunged both hands down into the deep, neatly-stacked stash of dresses.  
  
Jon was knelt on the edge of the bed by the time Cersei rose with the mahogany box in her hands. His head rested on the furs in a tangle of loose, black curls, muscled back curving down to present the lush white swell of his arse. The princely garb lay heaped upon the lid of his trunk. Coiled like a sunning asp atop the breeches was a belt.  
  
Impelled by a dark, wicked impulse, Cersei moved to Jon's trunk. She placed the box on the rumpled pile of his tunic. Grabbing the belt, she wrapped the supple, black leather twice around her right hand and swept over to bed.  
  
"You are beautiful when you yield to me," Cersei drawled, groping a pert cheek with her left hand.  
  
"And you're a fearsome woman when you rule," replied Jon, a low, smooth thrum.  
  
Cersei snatched her hand away. Gripped the belt more tightly with the other. The silver buckle bit into her palm. Leather met flesh with a vicious _thwap_ an instant later, wrenching a deep, groaning keen from her husband's lips.  
  
An angry weal rose on the pale arse. Cersei's lips carved into a cruel smile. She whipped the belt down once more. Jon gave another ragged cry, back tensing like a storm-tossed sea suddenly falling still, hands clawing at the furs. The sound brought a sweet little shock to Cersei's loins. Her heart raced faster. Wildfire raged through her veins.  
  
"You'll be a widow if I can't stay on Rhaegal," Jon grit out in warning between harsh breaths.  
  
Cersei nudged Jon's thighs wider. Dragged the belt's tail over his balls. "Do _not_ speak of mounting that foul creature in our bed."  
  
Limbs quivered as the leather tongue scraped across the tiny dark crinkle hidden between the shapely cheeks. Slowly, Cersei teased the belt-end back and forth, letting her left hand quest along the sloping arc of Jon's spine. Muscles twitched under the lazy crawl of her fingers. Sweat glistened on the smooth skin in the low firelight.  
  
"Lie on your belly and put your hands above your head," Cersei commanded after a time.  
  
Jon laid flat upon the furs. He stretched out his arms, crossing his wrists, the very image of capitulation. Rucking up her thick skirts, Cersei clambered onto the bed awkwardly, her knees landing to either side of Jon's narrow hips. Cloth-of-silver shrouded his lower half as she set to work lashing the wrists together tightly with the belt.  
  
"Do you ever tire of tormenting me?" Jon asked when she was done.  
  
A smirk played at Cersei's lips. She wedged her thumb under the girding leather. Felt the pulse jump under its pad. "You vex me without end. You vex me with your eyes and you vex me with your mouth. Every inch of you is an outrage."  
  
"My mouth pleases you well enough when it's tasting your honey," Jon parried in his Northern husk.  
  
Carnal heat licked down Cersei's spine at the thought. Her sex throbbed, wet and wanting, between her thighs. All she need do was order Jon onto his back, seat herself upon his pretty face, and the relief of his mouth would be hers.  
  
Steeling herself, she fisted her right hand in the raven locks, yanking Jon's head back as her left cupped his throat. "You shall have my cunt, Snow, once I am through buggering you blind," she promised, her voice a poison purr.  
  
The bedstead juddered creakily as Cersei climbed off it. Her boots clacked as she strode around to her nightstand. Taking the small, red-brown pot from its place beside the candlestick, she returned to brood over her prone husband. _I shall have to entreat that fool Wolkan for a salve to rid me of Mother's marks_ , she thought, opening the nearly-empty pot.  
  
Jon released a long shuddering moan when Cersei punched two salve-slick fingers deep into the swelter of his body. Molten velvet engulfed her digits. Fluttered around them in little shivering pulses. It was an unparalleled sensation.  
  
"Oh, _fuck_ ," Jon groaned as Cersei prodded at the firm swell that rose from his foremost wall.  
  
_The site of making and unmaking_ , Qyburn called it. Cersei had unlaid its secret that day she'd dared slip a finger inside Jaime. It held a primordial thrill, laying open the living marvel of Jon Snow, wresting forbidden pleasure from his flesh. He was bound to her now. Fortune had shaped them into something rare. Alloyed them like silver and gold.  
  
Cersei fucked her fingers into Jon. He moaned with it, low, filthy sounds. Levered his abused rump off the mattress. As her right hand redoubled its sweet torture, her left ventured into the vee of his thick, lightly-furred thighs.  
  
"Touch me, for pity's sake!" Jon growled as Cersei's fingers brushed the underside of his stiff member.  
  
A scoff thumped into the dam of Cersei's smirking lips. "If you spend on the furs, Snow, I shall ensure you regret it." She gave another hard, deep pump, then withdrew her fingers. "But then you seem to delight in crossing me."  
  
"Aye, I've grown fond of your terrible impulses," Jon said, slumping forward onto the bed.  
  
Cersei did not deign to reply, just slinked to Jon's chest and hastily added her robe, gown, and shift to the scatter. Kicking off her boots, she surveyed the length of her torso, from the ruddy coins of her teats to the curve of her belly. Her fingers slowly walked the dark line that ran from her naval. _No man shall touch me without my leave again_.  
  
Then her hands sought the mahogany box. Undid the latch and prized open the lid. The harness lay in its bed of red velvet, a snarl of supple straps and a hard, boiled-leather cup to which the golden cock was affixed by tiny rivets. She slung the harness low on her pelvis, buckling its belt beneath the gentle, fifth-moon wax of her abdomen  
  
"Stay flat and spread your legs," Cersei ordered, padding barefoot to the bed.  
  
Jon did as she bid, forking his legs wider apart, stretching his arms higher above his head. A frisson bolted down Cersei's spine at the sight of him, and she plucked the little clay pot from where it lay, swiftly salving the cock. Then she climbed onto the bed, kneeling astride the slender hips, bracing her palms on the broad, toned back.  
  
Cersei pressed the cock to Jon's hole. With no further preamble, she slammed her hips forward, seating it deep within him. Jon jolted with the savage force of it, spine bowing inward as he poured a deep, strangled groan into the furs.  
  
She stayed her hips for a long, heady moment, savouring the sharp hitching pants of the man pinned beneath her. Muscles roiled under the thin sheen of sweat filming his skin. So much hard, battle-honed strength, held in abeyance. He was _hers_ , utterly and irrevocably, this treasure of a man who made life flower in the winter of her womb.  
  
" _Ruin me_ , Cersei," urged Jon, his voice raw silk. "I can take your worst. You won't unman me."  
  
Cersei gave a pleased hum. Let her fingernails rake lines down the pale back. Swatted a hand across the sore arse. "I thought you feared falling from the sky should I misuse you too greatly," she said, grinding forward in tiny, tortuous rolls.  
  
"No," Jon replied. "I fear you're making a Lannister of me. There'll surely be gold in the privy tomorrow."  
  
Laughter bubbled out of Cersei unbidden. "You do not know our words and yet you know of that vile tavern jest?" Hands clamping on Jon's shoulders, she pushed him down against the bed, drawing her pelvis back.  
  
The bed cracked in protest as she began her onslaught. Every stab of the golden cock tore a grunt from Jon's lips. He thrashed as she rutted into him hard, back heaving in an exquisite ripple of muscle, slender hips yawing in fitful jerks. The mummer's struggle set her blood to flame anew. Made her heart hammer swifter and her cunt weep.  
  
She took her husband pitilessly, pounding his fine young body into the mattress until he was a limp, trembling wreck. Her palm delivered periodic smacks to his arse. Agonized moans rang out. Bound hands scrabbled at the furs.  
  
When her back was too sore to bear, Cersei halted her hips and withdrew the cock with a slow, careful movement. "Turn over," she said, her tone softened by exertion. She worked to unfasten the harness as Jon complied with a wince.  
  
"Ah, Gods, _Cersei_ ," Jon rasped when Cersei finally throned herself upon his cockstand.  
  
Eyes dark as deepest night gazed up at her as she moved. Jon rocked his hips off the bed in skittish little stutters. They soon settled into an easy, unhurried dance, their bodies uniting in a rhythm as elemental as sea meeting shore.  
  
Cersei let her palms wander the plane of her husband's chest. Her thumb traced the cruel crescent of his killing-scar. "You are _mine_ , Jon," she told him, feeling the wild drum of his deathless heart beneath her fingertips.  
  
Jon's eyes screwed shut. His mouth flew open, a raw, animal groan spilling out. He shattered beneath Cersei's relentless sway, shaking like a man cast into ice-bound water, his hands palsying where they lay high above his head. The warmth of his seed pulsed deep into Cersei's core. She closed her eyes, moaning, her own release taking her.  
  
A fragile smile greeted Cersei when she opened her eyes. Black curls were plastered to Jon's sweat-damp forehead. "Don't think I'll be riding anything for a fortnight," he declared, the soft Northern accent hoarsened from ill use.  
  
"Good," Cersei said simply, her hands rising to undo the belt binding her husband's wrists.

"You'd like it, wouldn't you?" goaded Jon. "Keeping me too sore to leave this bed? Making me a slave to your wicked desires?"  
  
The words sent a dark thrill coursing down Cersei's spine. Jon's cock twinged where it was rooted inside her. His passion was already mustering, kindled by whatever strange magic lived within his flesh, giving him more stamina than even the blessings of youth should afford. _Only a sweet fool like you would taunt a lioness_ , she mused, letting her thumbs skim the red impressions left by the belt.

"You haven't the faintest idea of the insults I wish to inflict upon your person," Cersei warned. "When we are settled in the Dreadfort, Snow, I shall chain you up in the dungeon — or perhaps tie you to the rack — and take you until your balls are blue from want."

Jon met the challenge with a small smile. His warm palm cupped her breast. He was fully aroused, now, a pleasant spike of heat within her. "It's another round of lovemaking I'm up for tonight," he said. "Perhaps you'll have worked up an appetite by the end of it."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some reflection, I've decided I will try to finish this fic, but updates may take longer. However, something had to give, so the Jaime/Dany fic (which I intended to write concurrently) is now on hiatus.
> 
> Fic-writers are human. We get burned out. We get discouraged. Sometimes we feel like calling it quits. Feedback matters. The positivity and support that readers give writers whose fics they enjoy is truly appreciated. Long, plot-heavy, character-focused fics require a serious time commitment and emotional investment. Knowing there are readers invested in one's writing helps one carry on through inevitable bouts of self-doubt and frustration.
> 
> But feedback can also have consequences. Constructive criticism has its place. Petty complaints and badgering, on the other hand, have a corrosive effect. They spawn yet another creativity-devouring monster an author must slay before they can get back to the business of putting words to screen. I try to tag for things to give readers an idea of what they're getting into before they begin. All the ships featured in this fic are tagged. But, at the end of the day, this is _my_ story. I do not owe anyone an apology for splitting apart their OTP in the course of the plot because no one is entitled to expect the outcome of a fic to accord with their shipping preferences. (I actually ship Jaime/Brienne, for what it's worth.)

Fingers trailed warmth across the full swell of Cersei's belly. A moment later, Jon's head dipped, kissing the taut skin. Cersei smiled. Her hand rose from the linens. Brushed aside the forecurl that spiked down the centre of Jon's brow. The child was battling within her womb. Twisting and kicking and jabbing. _How can one be worse than two?_

"She's restless this morning," Jon remarked, a soft, reverent hush.

"As she was _all night_ ," Cersei rejoined, fondness blunting the droll cut of her words.

"Our little fighter," Jon said. He drew himself upright. Light bleeding in from the window silvered the side of his face. His hand returned to Cersei's belly, chasing the ripple of an elbow shifting, night-black eyes yawning wide in wonder. "It'll be horses and swords and scraped knees for her. Not sitting for hours while she learns to work a needle."

"Isn't that your dearest wish, Snow?" Cersei arched a brow pointedly. "Princesses to spoil into beasts?"

Jon chuckled. His plush lips cracked into a brittle smile. "Aye," he admitted.

In the five long, cold moons since the night the cutthroat came for her, Cersei hadn't suffered Wolkan's touch again. _You're carrying too high for a son, I fear_ , he'd still told her. It had taken a feat of will not to throttle him with his chain.

"Well, whether it's to be a prince or a princess, my time shall come soon enough," Cersei pronounced.

Jon lifted his gaze to meet Cersei's. The smile turned wolfish. Gentle fingers brushed over the button of her naval. "You're beautiful. I'll miss the way you look all round with my child. I know it's selfish, but I want a fourth. Maybe even a fifth."

A warm little pang rocked Cersei's chest. The sweet ache of lovemaking still lingered between her thighs. It was a tiny reprieve from the agony of her back, the swollen calamity of her feet, and the ceaseless stirring of the babe. Lips pulling into a smirk, she caught Jon's chin and said, "You'll need to avail yourself of a younger wife."

"I don't make empty vows, Cersei," Jon intoned, low enough to send a shivery tingle shooting down Cersei's spine. "You took me as your husband. Now I'm yours. I'll be talking you out of terrible things until my dying day."

"You shall certainly try," Cersei drawled, tightening her grip, her nails biting into the bristled chin.

Cersei let her hand fall from Jon's face after a heated stretch. The castle was already beginning to hum with activity. Levering herself upright awkwardly, she swung her legs off of the bed, her feet meeting the chill grey flagstones. "Your cobbler isn't fit to shod a mule," she said, slowly turning her neck. "My feet shall be screaming by midday."

"Gared does the best he can with the little leather we can spare him," Jon replied evenly.

"I am the mother of his future queen," Cersei seethed. "He ought to be relieved of his hands for daring to insult me."

Jon shifted off the bed to kneel on the floor. He took Cersei's right foot in his hands. Pressed his thumbs into its arch. "We won't last the winter if we start maiming smallfolk," he warned, kneading circles into the sole of her foot.

Eyes slipping shut, Cersei huffed out a long, skittering breath. She surrendered to the bliss of her husband's touch. The calloused thumbs churned, round and round in a slow, steady dance, melting the tension from her flesh. Then they halted abruptly, and Cersei's eyes snapped open to find a dark, searching gaze craned up at her.

"You have faint scars," Jon stated, little more than a wisp of a breath.

Cersei swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat. Her gut lurched at the memory of thousands of leering eyes. At how her uncle had stood stern-faced as she stumbled through the gates, weeping, shaking, and reeking of shit.

"Qyburn did what he could," said Cersei, hoping to allay further talk. "He tended Jaime, too, after his mutilation."

Jon released Cersei's foot. His eyes were glistening. "They made you walk, naked, until your _feet bled_."

"The Faith has an odd notion of mercy," Cersei replied, tight as the clutch of a dying man.

" _Why?"_ Jon grit out, a small, hard rasp of shock and fury.

Cersei drew a slow breath. Gripped the fur throw hanging off the edge of the bed. Words seemed to clot in her throat. He'd kept her from her son, that sunken, shoeless cunt, prizing the secret from her lips like a sweetmeat to savour. But now her confessor knelt before her, young, bare, and wet-eyed. Her heart came unfettered at the sight.

"I took a lover shortly after Robert departed this world," Cersei said, perching a hand atop the mount of her belly. "Your brother had Jaime captive. It was a fool's dalliance. I soon came to my senses. My lover did not. It felt a terrible slight, I imagine, being cast from his queen's bed." An image of blue eyes judging her from below a red star took shape in her mind. "In time, he unburdened his cares to the High Sparrow, and so began that _hateful_ creature's fixation with me."

"Did they march your lover through the streets until his blood stained the paving stones?" Jon probed.

A joyless laugh escaped Cersei. Her lips slashed into a bitter smile. "No, of course not. His penitence was enough." The tiny shock of a kick met her fingers. "Walks of atonement aren't made with a cock wagging between one's legs."

Jon's gaze remained fixed upon Cersei for a silent span. Then he rose, swift and fluid, and stooped over down her. Fingers spooning around the base of her skull, he lowered his head and pressed a warm, gentle kiss to her neck. "You've made me see," he murmured in her ear. "That doesn't make it right, what you did, but I _understand_."

He parted from her with a lingering look. The creak of a trunk opening sounded a moment later. Dull, throbbing pain shot up Cersei's shins as she stood, the full weight of her child-heavy body bearing down upon her feet. _I've seen too many years for the Mother's blessing_ , she mused, rolling her shoulders with a series of cracks.

Cersei dressed with an unhurried grace, choosing a high-necked gold undergown and a black, robe-fronted dress. There were few gowns in her trunk that fit the contours of her body now. She refused to trust her fine southern silks to the clumsy needle of some Northern girl.

"You'll mind Marys after breakfast?" Jon asked when Cersei sat on the bed to put on her boots.

"She is your war, Snow," Cersei countered. "Perhaps you ought to stop trying to coddle her into obedience."

Jon's eyes slipped shut. He blew out a quiet sigh. When he looked at her once more, his gaze was hard, determined. "Aye, she has a willful nature, I'll grant you that," he said, jerking his sword-belt round so the hilt rested at his left hip. "But you're my wife. That makes you my general in this war. I trust you with the little ones. _All_ the little ones."

Ire knotted in the pit of Cersei's stomach. She rose, then, slow and awkward. The accursed boots pinched her toes. "You will _not_ compel me to favour Greyjoy's vicious little whore-whelped brat as if she was born of my own womb."

Solid steps trailed the clack of Cersei's boot-heels to the door. Jon pulled her cloak from its peg with a crisp rustle. Cersei firmed her lips. Drew a sharp sniff. Wheeled to meet the fathomless eyes. They held no anger. Only sorrow. Then her husband's hands lifted, wrapping the cloak around her shoulders, fastening the lion's head clasp at her neck.

"She's _motherless_ , Cersei," Jon implored after a fraught silence had passed.

The sound of her mother's screams pealing down the corridor rose from the deep of Cersei's memory. She recalled Septa Saranella dragging her and Jaime out of their bedchamber, down to the small, ancient sept carved deep within the Rock. They'd prayed for hours, it seemed, but no mercy had come. The Gods troubled over the tears of men as little as the lion did over the dying bleats of a sheep.

Jon took his black cloak from where it hung. "Brienne's drilling the girls today. She doesn't want Marys underfoot." The cloak whispered as he donned it. "Ser Davos has agreed to watch her hack at a dummy for a bit instead."

"She'll soon tire, I expect," Cersei averred, snatching her gloves from the table beneath the cloak-rack.

"Aye," Jon said simply, gifting Cersei with a sliver of a smile.

Marys bounded out of the twins' bedchamber the instant they set foot in the corridor, tiny, wooden sword held aloft. Her brown hair was an untamed snarl. The front of her grey kraken-emblazoned tunic was speckled with crumbs. Clattering to a halt in front of Jon, her mouth broke into a grin and she gleefully declared, "I'm ready!"

"Not until you've eaten," Jon told the child, patting her head with his gloved hand.

"Alys sent for biscuits," Marys protested.

"That's not a meal," Jon replied.

Bubbling laughter rang out suddenly from the twins' chamber. Frantic footsteps hustled about for a long moment. Then Alys burst into the corridor, eyes wide, cheeks aflame. Damon squirmed in her arms. Joanna toddled behind. The servant girl rushed to where Jon stood, bowing her head and offering a sheepish, stammering apology.

Joanna stumbled over the skirt of her little navy dress. Landed in a wailing heap at the toe of Jon's black boots. He knelt to scoop her tiny form into his arms, sowing a tender kiss upon the dark, unruly halo of her curls.

"Papa!" Joanna choked out between great wet sobs.

"It was only a tumble," Jon soothed.

Cersei's heart trembled. _My precious winter flower_ , she thought. Ice-blue roses were stitched upon the velvet of Joanna's gown. They were Sansa's handiwork, a token to remind the world of Lyanna's crown, of the North's strength and sacrifice.

Damon smiled as Cersei plucked him from Alys's arms. His eyes fixed upon her, bright, round, and black as coals. He was as jolly as Joffrey had been in his earliest years, and as mild as Tommen, yet he was his own, somehow.

"I can see the children fed, princess," Alys offered in a meek little chirp.

Footsteps beat down the corridor. A boy of twelve hastened toward them. Shaggy brown hair hung over his soft face. "There's a maester here for you, m'lord," he told Jon. "He's waiting in the yard. Says he's your friend."

A look of elated surprise spread across Jon's features. Then he turned, sweeping away, cloak trailing behind.

Joanna gave a piercing shriek, red face peering over the bulk of the thick, brown fur at the collar of Jon's cloak. "Dae!" she cried, wriggling like a fish, tiny fingers snatching at the air. "Mama, no! Dae! Stay, Dae! _Stay!_ "

Damon went slack in Cersei's arms. Dread crept through her chest. Choked the hammer of her heart to a stutter. Time seemed to narrow to a grey wash, to the high, ringing shrieks of her daughter and the crypt-silence of her son. Her feet began to move as if drawn by an elemental force. Sharp clicks resounded as her boot-heels met stone.

Marys dashed ahead. Turned the corner in pursuit of Jon. Cersei's feet protested every step. Her body felt a great, lumbering thing, laden with the weight of her son in her arms, and the fullness of the child in her womb.

When Cersei finally reached the courtyard, her husband was hugging a heavy, black-robed man. A woman with long brown hair stood at his side, bouncing a little loaf of sackcloth in her arms, her gaze surveying the castle's height. At her feet was a boy of five, flaxen-haired and pink-faced, busy fashioning a spire out of snow as Marys watched.

Gravel crunched under Cersei's boots as she traipsed the distance to where the group was huddled beside a cart. A man with hair the colour of summer-dry straw stood upon the cart's bed, a long, wrapped parcel slung under his arm. His head turned at her approach. Recognition flashed across his weathered face. Then darkened to suspicion.

Joanna reached out as Cersei flanked Jon. Caught the edge of her brother's cloak. She was quiet, now, and still.

The short chain hanging from the young maester's neck clinked softly as he released Jon and took a step back. His wide dark gaze instantly clapped onto Cersei's face. "Oh," he squeaked, loosing a puff of steam.

"She's my wife, Sam," Jon offered after a flicker of silence.

"I know," replied the maester, a little more evenly. "I mean I've met her. Well, _once_ , at Horn Hill. When I was a boy." Cheeks rounded with a simpering smile. "The King came to hunt with my father to put the war behind them."

 _It wasn't a boar that Robert was keen on spearing that trip_. Renly had betrayed the truth to her in a moment of pity. Making the eight, it was called. A girl bedded in every kingdom. Some poor Reach maid had been the final conquest.

"Robert was particularly fond of his hunts," Cersei stated, not troubling to keep the venom from her tone.

"I never liked hunting," Sam replied, oddly earnest.

A sudden howl rent the air. Cersei's gaze leapt to its source. The Greyjoy girl had the boy pinned on the cold ground. Her toy sword was at his throat. Tears shone in his big blue eyes. Clumps of snow lay where the spire had stood.

"Is that any way for a princess to treat a guest?" came a gentle voice.

Marys sprang away from the boy. Scowled up at the bemused face of Ser Davos. "I take what's mine!"

"Forgive me," Davos said, patient but firm. "I'm a man of salt and wave myself. Had sailor's legs soon as I could walk. But we're a long way from the sea, princess, and I don't recall any fearsome tales of Ironborn reavers smashing little boys' snowcastles."

The ratty brown head fell. Little boots scuffed against the snow. "I'm sorry," Marys blurted.

"It's good to see you again, ser," Sam told Davos a moment later.

"We named the baby Shireen," the woman at Sam's side added brightly. "Is she here? The princess?"

Davos's calm expression wavered like water hit by a stone. His gaze shot to Jon, a line between his thin, grey brows. The look Jon gave in answer was both startled and sad. He lifted a hand, cradling Joanna's dark, curly pate. Silence unwound, until at last the confusion on the full, white moon of the Sam's face melted into understanding.

Cersei swallowed. She hadn't thought of her niece in an age. Not since the first report that Stannis had flown north. Not since there had been a true threat that the girl might end up seated on the Iron Throne in place of her son.

"You're itching to swing that sword, aren't you?" Davos said, looking down at Marys.

Then they were gone, the grey-bearded knight and the tangle-haired girl, shuffling off across the courtyard. A strange, tender ache blossomed in the hollow behind Cersei's ribs, and she clutched Damon tighter to her chest.


	16. Chapter 16

Dark wings flickered through the dimming grey vault of the sky above the snow-capped teeth of the battlements. Wind skimmed Cersei's face, pelting fine, crisp flakes into her cheeks and stirring the thick sable fur at her cloak's collar. One black-gloved hand rested on the edge of a merlon. The other sat atop the juddering swell of her belly.  
  
"Seems the beast has taken to him," came a sand-and-water drawl from her side.  
  
Cersei smiled. Turned to meet her brother's gaze. They'd shared each other's company little in the past three moons. "' _Beast?_ '" she needled, right brow carving an upward arc. "Is that how you speak of your dear wife's children?"  
  
Jaime's brows converged. Twin creases formed between them. "I don't think they see me as their father."  
  
There was a weight in the words. Cersei could see the ghosts in his eyes. Golden ghosts that haunted her own heart. _Our handsome boys. Our sweet, beautiful girl._ Breath halted in her throat. Sputtered out in a curl of steam.  
  
Silence settled between them. A hand sought Cersei's where it perched on the merlon. Gave a light squeeze. Cersei held Jaime's eyes for a span, then dragged her gaze back to the twisting, weaving shadow of the green-black dragon. The tiny ripple of a cloak flowed from its back. _Dragons returned to this earth. My children are lost forever._  
  
"Half the castle thinks I've made a cuckold of poor Jon Snow," declared Jaime after a time.  
  
"Let them sneer," Cersei replied, an edge in her tone. "Do you remember what Father used to say?"  
  
"'The lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.' Bit of a quandary for us. Tyrion doubts my honour too."  
  
Cersei pulled her hand away. Swung a glare at Jaime. "You've always been too soft to see his words for poison."  
  
Jaime's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. "I know you hate him," he said. "But his tongue is the reason you're alive." The left hand rose. Swatted the sky. "That _boy_ didn't save your head. Our _brother_ did. You understand that?"  
  
"Tyrion has been set upon our family's ruin from his first breath," Cersei hissed.  
  
" _Don't_ ," Jaime seethed, tight as a choking grip.  
  
"Well, now he has his heart's wish," Cersei pressed. "You gave it to him when you bound yourself to a barren whore." The letter she'd had from Qyburn a moon past spoke of secrets spilled from the lips of a spurned lover in Meereen.  
  
Jaime tipped the silver-flecked brass of his head. "I haven't forgotten my _duty_. Our house isn't doomed."  
  
Understanding struck Cersei like a blow. Her eyes flicked to the dragon in the sky. Its great black brother was absent. She watched the creature cut a slow, elegant circle, then turned back to meet the stark blue of her twin's gaze.  
  
"It's early," Jaime told her quietly. "Maester Wolkan isn't certain. He thought flying unwise."  
  
Cersei lifted a hand to cup the hinge of Jaime's jaw. The knot in her chest eased to a soft ache. Jaime held her gaze. Half a lifetime ago, he'd stolen into the joyless cage of her marriage bed, planting life and purpose within her womb. _You gave me children. Yet you never got to love them as your own. The Gods made you drink from a bitter cup._  
  
"Wolkan is a craven fool," Cersei stated, hand dropping. "I wouldn't trust him with birthing your heir."  
  
"You'll favour Wolkan's craven hands soon enough. Unless you'd rather trust your child to the Tarly boy's fumbling." Drollness tinged the low drag of Jaime's voice. "Expect he's poked at more meat pies than cunts."  
  
"He has two bastards," Cersei rejoined, turning from the ramparts. Gravel crunched as she traipsed down the snow-covered walkway. Jaime followed at her side, cloak rustling and sword jostling against the right fauld of his red, battle-scuffed cuirass. When she reached the stairs, he hooked his arm into the bend of her elbow, steadying her as she descended.  
  
The yard still thrummed with activity. Hammer sang against anvil. Smallfolk milled about carrying goods. Under the eaves of a storehouse by the stables, a crone sat drooped over the spindle in her small, age-spotted hands.  
  
"Look how the she-wolf preens," Jaime remarked, halting beside a barrel-laden cart.  
  
Cersei stopped alongside her brother. Gazed at where Arya Stark was sparring with Lady Brienne. The girl dodged a swing with serpentine ease, raising her whip-lean shortsword and parrying with a series of swift, ringing strikes. Murmurs rippled through the shy little clutch of wooden sword-wielding girls huddled a few yards away.  
  
The smith watched rapt from his forge. His eyes were wide in his soot-smeared face. Black hair clung to his brow in clumps. _Robert's last bastard_ , Cersei thought, heart clenching. He looked as Steffon might had he grown to manhood.  
  
"It's thankful my husband isn't here to see that baseborn clod leering at his little sister," Cersei said.  
  
"The last time a dragon kept a stag from his prize, it ended in war," Jaime quipped.  
  
A panicked cry rang suddenly from across the yard. Cersei cupped her belly as her gaze flew to its source. On the ground in front of the storehouse lay a girl, thrashing like a landed fish beneath a heap of grey, winter-worn rags. Bony fingers closed around her throat. Her scream choked into a splutter. Brown boots battled in the snow.  
  
Two grooms dashed out of the stables. One caught the crone by the back of her cloak. Pulled her off the gasping girl. The crone's head snapped up with a horrible shriek. Her eyes blazed blue. Spittle hung from her chin.  
  
Cersei's breath burst out in a white fog. Terror took her heart in its brutal grasp. Jaime backed her against the cart. The crimson of his cloak blotted out her view. Shouts broke out around the yard. Frantic steps crunched in the snow. Then Jaime unsheathed his sword and charged forth. _Lions don't cower like lambs_ , Cersei told herself.  
  
Jaime kicked the wight flat onto the snow a moment later. The creature screamed as his sword pierced its belly. An instant later, the red-bearded wildling shouldered him aside, casting a torch at the writhing, grasping thing.  
  
"Sent a lad to fetch your husband," said an even voice over the waning clamour.  
  
Cersei turned to meet Davos's gaze. Drew a lungful of cold crisp air. The stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils. "Do you think violence shocks me?" she asked, a brittleness beneath the soft, venomous slither of her voice.  
  
"I can't speak to your stomach, princess, but my wife had a fright with our third, and he came early."  
  
Unease settled in Cersei's gut. Her fingers spread wide on her belly. A kick pulsed through the leather of her gloves. She faltered a moment, hard, edged words arming the tip of her tongue, then her gaze slid to her brother.  
  
Blue eyes united with hers as if impelled by a deep magic. Square jaw twitching, Jaime gave her a short, tight nod. He was still holding his sword. Blood speckled the snow below its point. _Widow's Wail_ , their son had named it. Bright orange tongues licked up from the crone's body, masking her twin's face in wild, dancing shadows.  
  
"Princess," Davos said, something like pity weighting the word.  
  
Cersei pushed off the cart and strode toward the castle. The Great Hall was cloaked in silence when she entered it. Twilight seeped through the high, frost-skinned windows, washing bruise-blue across the grey flagstones.  
  
Only one of the seven hearths lining the hall was lit. Bran Stark was sat before it in his wheeled chair. At his side stood a tall, slender woman robed in flowing red silks, her gaze transfixed upon the blazing heart of the fire. Orange light played across the fine, sharp angles of face, making her smooth ebon skin seem to glow from within.  
  
The sharp rap of Cersei's boots echoed in the still space as she trundled over to the High Table. Taking a pewter pitcher from where it rested on a tarnished tray, she poured herself a goblet of wine and took a long, bracing swig. Heat swam down her gullet and flowered in her belly. Dulled the chill clutch of dread choking her heart.  
  
"Last thing that lad needs is a _witch_ whispering in his ear," Davos said as he came up beside her.  
  
"Our queen certainly keeps interesting company." Cersei thumbed one of the hard little nubs ringing the goblet. "Dothraki screamers. Yunkish slaves. Red priestesses. One might think she longs for the land of her exile."  
  
"Is finding a home in exile really such a strange thing, princess?" Davos returned.  
  
Footsteps shattered the hush. Cersei whirled to see Jon hastening across the room. Then he was in front of her. Framing her face between his gloved hands, he held her gaze for a long, spun-glass moment, his eyes liquid night. Snowflakes melted to silver flecks on the crown of his hair. Dragon-stink wafted off the clothing under his coat-of-plate.  
  
"Jon, I saw him," warned the deep, thready voice of Bran Stark from his place before the hearth.  
  
" _Where?_ " Jon asked, head snapping around. His hands fell from Cersei's face. Curled into fists at his sides.  
  
"Eastwatch," Bran answered. "His whole army is there. _Waiting_. The Wall is failing. I feel it in his mark."  
  
Jon's expression turned grave. The apple of his throat quivered. "I'll send a raven to Last Hearth," he told his brother. Coal-dark eyes fixed upon Cersei once more. "Thought we'd have more time. It's a mercy the dead are slow."  
  
"Don't waste precious breath on me, Snow," Cersei said in a tone alloyed with iron.  
  
With a grim nod, Jon turned around, swept from the room. Cersei's heart shuddered at the sight of his retreating form. Her fingers shook around the goblet. Night pressed through the windows now. The air in the chamber seemed too close.  
  
"Did you not see this turn in the flames, my lady?" Davos asked, gaze alighting on the red-robed woman.  
  
"I have seen the Great Other," said the priestess, meeting the knight's eye, "as I have seen the Promised One." Her thickly-accented voice ran slow and rich as honey, its power seeming to fill every corner of the great, cavernous hall. "Reborn amidst smoke and salt, beneath a star that weeps blood, she has awoken dragons from the rock."  
  
"I know the prophecy," Davos replied tightly. "I served a man who thought it spoke of himself."  
  
"Stannis Baratheon was not the Prince That Was Promised."  
  
"No, he wasn't," Davos agreed. "But he was made to believe he was. And that belief drove him to madness."  
  
"Shadow and flame are the Lord's gifts," the priestess said. "The Lord can relight the fire of life in any of his children. But only those He takes through shadow and flame may know the rare grace of returning in another skin."  
  
"He burned his own daughter alive!" Davos roared, the shock of his fury booming like a thunderclap through the hall. "You think burning children isn't evil because a voice in the flames told you they might be reborn?"  
  
Wrenching pain tore through Cersei's womb suddenly. The goblet slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. Fingers clamping onto the table's edge, she dropped her gaze and bit her lip to mute her raw, whimpering cry. Wine crawled like spilled blood toward the tiny puddle darkening the flagstones between her worn black boots.  
  
_No, it's too soon_ , Cersei thought, panic igniting within her. _Please, my sweet. Not now. Not now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter took significantly longer to deliver than previous ones. But, after taking a break and focusing on a series of PWPs, personal circumstances conspired to deplete the time and energy I have to devote to writing.
> 
> The Unsullied were originally from Astapor rather than Yunkai. But this struck me as a fact Cersei wouldn't trouble to know.
> 
> Some of the R'hlorr-related lore (R'lore!) given by the red priestess was invented to suit my own purposes.
> 
> ETA: I realized after the fact that Jaime having Widow's Wail in this chapter conflicted with him having presented it to the Starks in Chapter 6. I went back and edited Chapter 8 so that Jaime stated Bran gave it back to him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a point-of-view childbirth in case this is something that any reader wishes to avoid. 
> 
> Thanks to [half_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/pseuds/half_life) for the constant moral support and advice.

Cersei winced as another hard spasm wracked her womb. Her left hand tensed where it was braced upon the mantle. The stone was cool and rough under her clammy palm. _How many mothers have laboured in this room?_  
  
Wind raged outside the window. The shutters rattled from its force. _Perhaps they shall call you Stormborn_. She ran her right hand across the swell of the babe, rustling the thin, white linen of the shift hanging from her shoulders.  
  
A low whine drew Cersei's gaze down to the hearthrug. Ruby eyes glittered up at her in silent inquiry. She wondered if the great wolf could smell the fear gnawing at her heart, making her feel less a lioness than a weak, hunted thing. The Stranger took her mother on the birthing bed. He might yet claim her life in this very chamber.  
  
"Are your pains coming faster?" asked a gentle voice.  
  
" _Yes_ ," answered Cersei, sharp and hissing, gaze swinging to where Gilly sat.  
  
"Won't be long, then," declared Samwell Tarly. He stood beside the wildling, a small, green-stained pestle in his hand. Oddments were scattered across the table at his back. It recalled the purposeful disarray of Qyburn's workshop.  
  
"And, pray, how many babes have you delivered since taking your chain?" Cersei needled.  
  
"Well," Tarly said, flashing a sheepish smile. "Only Shireen, as such, but I have read the primary texts on the subject." His short chain jangled as he shook his head. "The Citadel didn't think practical training needed at the Wall."  
  
Anger flared in the pit of Cersei's gut. An urge to throttle Tarly rose within her. Then her womb quaked again. Agony cascaded through her body, and her right hand shot up to clutch the mantle, her eyes clamping shut tight as a vice. The creak of the door opening sawed into her ears. Footsteps hastened toward her through the haze.  
  
Warm fingers slotted into the bow of Cersei's lower back. "I'm sorry," said a soft, frost-fragile voice.  
  
Cersei snorted. Her lips flicked into a thin smile. "Is this truly a battle you wish to face, Snow?"  
  
"I wanted to be there when the twins came," Jon replied.  
  
"I know," Cersei said simply. Jon had pleaded to be let into the birthing room. She'd bade Qyburn to send him away. All that had remained to her after losing her crown was pride and the promise of children with unwritten fates.  
  
Jon's palms summited the length of Cersei's spine. He kneaded the tension from her bare shoulders. His touch anchored her as another spasm shocked her womb, forcing a long, skittering groan out from between her grit teeth. When the wave finally receded, she pushed away from the mantle, feet clapping against the flagstones.  
  
"I can give you milk of the poppy," Tarly offered. "Or motherwort. That'll help you along. _I think_."  
  
"Motherwort's only good for cleaning the womb once the baby's out," Gilly warned.  
  
The couple chattered on like birds greeting the dawn. Cersei turned plodding wheels in front of the hearth. Jon lingered to the edge of her circuit, black eyes wide in the winter-pallor of his face, hands balled into fists at his sides. He looked stricken. Jaime had worn that look the first time. _Men who brave battlefields quail in a mother's war._  
  
Walking had long long been her only relief during labour. She'd nearly carved a rut in her chamber in the Red Keep. Pycelle had tutted. The midwives had fussed. But she had been queen, and she'd done as she pleased, then.  
  
"Could you...um...lie down?" Tarly broached at last. "So I can see how you're doing?"  
  
Cersei skewered the young maester with a brutal glare. His round face was flushed a violent hue of red. Jon's gaze found hers after a beat, and she relented with an affronted huff, trundling to the bed and laying on the thick soft furs. She hastily rucked the skirt of her shift out of the way. Chill air met her thighs as she let her knees fall apart.  
  
Fingers probed inside her a moment later. Tarly's eyes were closed in mortification. He rooted around for a moment, prodding gently at the neck of her womb, then jerked his hand away like a boy caught pilfering his father's coffer. Cersei snapped her thighs shut and pulled her skirt back down as he wiped his hand on a fresh white cloth.  
  
"Only a finger so far," Tarly pronounced in a timorous squeak.  
  
"You've got fat fingers," Gilly said flatly. Her brown hair swung down to curtain her face as she bent over Cersei's bed. "Let me check, Sam. I've done this more." Small hands slipped under Cersei's skirt and eased her legs apart.  
  
"Get your filthy wildling paws off me!" Cersei spat.  
  
"Why are you so horrible to everyone?" Gilly threw back.  
  
Cersei opened her mouth. _I will have your eyes plucked from your skull_ , she meant to say. What came out was a wail. Pain engulfed her once more, red and sharp and cataclysmic, searing through her body, washing the world away.  
  
"You're doing so well, Cersei," Jon told her when the convulsion abated.  
  
He was sat in a chair at the side of the bed. His right hand pressed a damp rag to her brow. He cracked a tiny smile, warm and brittle as winter sun glittering on new-fallen snow, and clasped her forearm with his left hand. She wondered if the babe would have that same melting smile, or if the turn of its lips would be a cruel, cutting thing.  
  
"As well as might be expected with a bumbling maester and a savage midwife," Cersei said in a low tone.  
  
"And a fool of a husband," Jon added, his voice hushed as midnight.  
  
Thought fled Cersei's mind with a sudden shear of pain. The high ragged peal of her scream filled her ears. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, shattering her husband's face into a smear, a shapeless play of shadow and flame. His strong warm fingers manacled her wrist tighter. Soundless words flew from his fluttering mouth.  
  
"I know you're frightened," soothed Gilly after a time. Her hand ventured into the fork of Cersei's thighs. Slender fingers slid into Cersei's body, and a moment later the wildling declared, "You'll be ready to push soon."  
  
The ghost of Steffon rose from the crypt of Cersei's memory. He'd been so tiny, downy, black wisps crowning his head. His skin had been red and thin, like the dried husk of an onion, and she'd feared he might crumble at her touch. _Mother, have mercy_ , she thought, heart drumming hard. _I cannot bury a fifth child. I fear I shall go mad._  
  
"I lost my first boy," Cersei confessed, a dry, fear-thinned creak. "He came after only six moons."  
  
Brown eyes peered down from the bedside. "Don't worry," said Gilly. "One of my sisters gave birth at eight moons." Something in her gaze shifted. "We were worried the baby would die. But he didn't. He was healthy."  
  
Jon took Cersei's hand in his just as another spasm hit. The surety of his hold carried her through the vicious tide. When the shuddering of her womb finally relented, she heaved a harsh, steadying breath into her lungs. Iron's hot sharp stench flooded her nostrils. _Is this what it felt like, Mama, when you battled your last?_  
  
Gilly guided her knees wide and told her to _push_. Cersei bore down with all of her flagging strength. The crimson wave crested and crested, wresting a terrible scream from her, until at last it _gave_ , and a wet rush slid from her.  
  
A tiny weight landed upon Cersei's chest a moment later. She looked at the red face nestled between her breasts. Black tufts clung to the girl's head, matted with blood and slime, and her limbs seemed too long and thin for her body. For a moment, the room was still, silent, and golden. Then the little mouth trembled and gave a reedy cry.  
  
It fell away at the sound. The name in the dark; the breath upon her ear. Chains that had bound her heart for half her life. She'd nurtured her hatred like a poison flower. Honed it into a dagger of spite. _Fuck you, Robert. Fuck you to the Seventh Hell._  
  
"Lyanna," whispered Cersei, soft as summer snow. "Lyanna Targaryen."  
  
Jon reached out. His fingers stroked their daughter's arm. "Lyanna," he said, a quaver of wonder.  
  
Cersei looked up at her husband. He was weeping freely, now, tears rolling down his cheeks. The babe squirmed. Her squalls slowly tapered into mewling whimpers. She was tiny, and perfect, and _theirs_. Their little princess.  
  
Some time later, when Lyanna was clean and swaddled and fed, Cersei eyed the window. Wind still howled outside. The shutters were still groaning faintly under its assault. Darkness still peeked through the crack between them.  
  
"Morning hasn't even come," Cersei mused. "I laboured a day-and-a-half with my second."  
  
Tarly turned where he stood packing his things at the table. His lips were pressed flat and fear was plain in his eyes. "It should've come by now," he said, almost contrite. "But it hasn't, I'm afraid. And I don't think it will for quite a while."


End file.
